Bad Mother Funeral

Chapter 1

“Are you family? I need to know where to seat you.” The man eyes me like he thinks he may have seen me on the wanted posters at the post office.

“Could you just put me at the back?” He nods but still looks at me suspiciously. I’m sure with a population of less than a thousand, this man probably knows every soul who lives in Bobo.

“You look like her, but I don’t know you.” Apparently, he has concluded that I am an outsider and does not want me to look anything like his fine townsfolk. He seats me in the back row. I am still unsure about attending. I don’t exactly know this now-dead woman. And I am certainly not here out of respect.

Several women are escorted in and sit two rows in front of me. Their whispers are so loud that they would be less noticeable if they just spoke in a normal tone.

“Have you seen her?” One asks her row mates.

“Seen who?”

“The other kid.” Her four companions shake their heads, and I wonder which kid. Do they know what she did? Do they know the person who altered my life is in that casket, and I will never get to ask her why?

I walk to the front to see the deceased woman. I am curious what she looks like. I listen to the conversations of the few mourners at the front.

“Did she suffer?”

“No, her youngest told me she dropped like a bag of rocks. She was talking one second, on the ground dead the next.”

“Good way to go. Sure will miss her down at the fish camp. She paid for the kids in the neighborhood to rent fishing poles and taught ‘em to fish.”

“Yep, she was a good one.”

Chapter 2

A woman wailing makes me turn my attention to the side door where the family was being seated in the semi-private section. A dark-haired young woman is screaming. She is so distraught that she physically couldn’t stand on her own. Two young men carry her.

“MOMMA, MOMMA, YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME!” A second female was screeching now, and I felt embarrassed for her. I also wanted to punch her. I don’t know her, but she’s probably my sibling, so hitting her to shut her up would be the sisterly thing to do, right?

Coffin side, I keep my hands in my pockets. I am dressed appropriately for a funeral in rural Texas: black jeans, black button-down, black belt and boots, charcoal gray leather blazer. I don’t wear dresses, so this is the best this dead woman is going to get.

I don’t recognize the corpse. I note with amusement that she is dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Her hair is salt and pepper. I am blonde. Interesting.

Her t-shirt is white and screen-printed with a cartoon depiction of a woman fishing, and the text on the shirt boldly states “Gone Fishin’”. I let my lips curve up slightly at the corners. I appreciate sarcasm. But I despise fishing.

A man wearing a white-collar motions for me to take a seat. I don’t do the coffin-side visitation after services, but I will today. I won’t leave until I make my own statement.

“Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today…” The minister spoke eloquently about this fine woman called home by the lord. I couldn’t dispute his account of the life of Kellye Martin, but I knew with certainty it was not the entire truth.

Chapter 3

Eulogies followed. I listened to the mourners, all of whom apparently believed you shouldn’t speak poorly of the dead.

“My wife loved her family and especially every one of her children.” This was from the husband whose picture appeared in the funeral pamphlet. There were pictures of her kids, too. Some were siblings I remember before I was… gone. Other siblings, I had never met. I didn’t even know how many there were or their names before I saw the memorial program. Some of her children spoke about her.

“Best mom ever!” How trite, I judge silently.

“She never let me get away with anything, but she always made me feel loved, even when I was in trouble.” Mental eye rolling.

The final remarks come from a man whose blonde hair is going gray. When he approaches the podium, the room goes silent. The loud kind of silence that pulses with trepidation and sardonic anticipation.

“I haven’t seen Kellye for many years. The stories y’all tell about her don’t match the woman I knew; that’s probably a good thing. She turned things around. May she rest in peace or… have good fishing.” He waved toward the coffin and the t-shirt.

I watched him leave the podium, and the room took a collective breath. I studied him to see if I had a memory of him, but there was nothing. He stopped when he came alongside my row. Our eyes meet. They’re the same color of green. He looks back at the casket, shakes his head, and mutters, “All bullshit,” under his breath. He sits across from me, like he found me worthy and wants to stay near me.

Chapter 4

After the last person pays their respects and leaves, I quickly stride to the coffin and place an envelope inside. I stare at the face I don’t remember. “Gone Fishin’.” I won’t ever forget that shirt.

The blondish gray-haired man is waiting outside. His hands are nervously rolling a dirty ball cap that may have been red when it was new.

I stop a few feet short of the doors and take him in again. His posture is a little bent at the waist. His skin has been subjected to enough sun rays to turn it leathery.

“May I speak to you, ma’am?” He has a melodious, deep baritone voice. I nod my permission.

“My name is Mitchell Hoffman. Mitch Hoffman.”

I do not respond. Coming to this funeral was uncomfortable, but someone told me that if I didn’t, I would wonder for the rest of my life. Now I am questioning what, exactly, I would have been wondering about.

“I was Kellye’s first husband.” Mitch found his voice. “May I ask your name?” He takes a small step closer to me. He seems to understand that I am on the edge of bolting.

When I tell him my name, a look of confusion crosses his facial features, he shakes his head. “I am sorry to bother you, Ms. Landry.” He turns to go, and against the decisions I made before attending this funeral, I call his name.

“Mitch.” He turns to look at me.

“Why did you ask?” Mitch walks back to me. He points to a bench nearby. He sits on the bench, and I straddle it, facing him. He licks his lips before he speaks.

“How well did you know Kellye Martin?”

“I didn’t, the last time I saw her I was three years old.” His eyes go wide and brighten. He leans in, his hand flat on the bench between us.

“Is the name you gave me your real name? Were you born with it?” His tone is curiosity mixed with hope. I am suspicious, but maybe this is the thing I would regret if I hadn’t shown up today.

“No. I changed my name many years ago after confirming my family’s betrayal. I wanted to start completely over, so I changed my name, my life, everything.” I watch his face. Even his eyelids are like leather flaps as he raises watery eyes to mine.

“Was your name Chelsea Marie Hoffman? Is that what you changed it from?” I nod. There are no tears in my eyes. This family does not deserve my emotions, not after what they did.

Chapter 5

Mitch puts his head down, like he is ashamed or maybe shy. He wipes his eyes and then stands.

“Would you indulge an old man and join me for a cup of coffee and listen to a story? It’s important. ” I tilt my head, thinking. There’s something niggling at the back of my memory. I can’t grasp the data bubble floating around, so I decide to indulge the old man and maybe even myself. Could be a good story for my wife when I get home.

We meet at a diner beside the highway and sit across from each other in a booth of cracked red vinyl and a starburst Formica tabletop. While we wait for the coffee and snacks I ordered, he asks a few non-intrusive questions. I answer them with the grace I would give a nosy person in a doctor’s waiting room.

No, I don’t live locally. My job involves dogs and people, mostly veterans. No, that’s not my car (it is, but that is none of his business, yet). Once the waitress is gone, I want to throw questions at him, but I decide to let him tell his story. When he doesn’t speak, I prod him.

“You said you were Kellye Martin’s first husband. Want to tell me how that ended?” He puts his mug down so gently, I wonder if he is holding in anger that doesn’t show on his face.

“We were always volatile. Drinking when we were together was always so much fun, until it wasn’t. She would get vicious after a certain level of drunk. Once, I was passed out, and she superglued my balls to my asshole.” I visibly wince.

“Harsh!” I say, but chuckle.

“Painful!” He adds with a chuckle. When he continues, it becomes clear what I would have missed by not coming to this funeral today. And it is much more than the humor of a “Gone Fishin’” t-shirt.

Chapter 6

"After our fourth kid, I was in the active Army Reserve and was deployed in the first Gulf War. I knew she was pregnant when I left, and I made her promise to send me pix as soon as the baby arrived. Those never came. She was so mad at me by then.”

“For leaving?”

“For breathing, I think.” He smiles, but it is a painful smirk and doesn’t reach his eyes.

I offer him some of my snacks. He chooses a jalapeño popper dipped in ranch. I wonder if he’s punishing himself. It doesn’t seem to faze him, and he continues. I can take the spice, but most people can’t take jalapeños at this heat level, not whole like he just did.

“When I came back, I found my wife,” he says‘wife’ as though it tastes like venom on his tongue. “In prison, my kids were living with my sister, and you were nowhere to be found.”

“Me?” I point to myself. My voice almost squeaks.

“You. I am positive you are my missing daughter.”

Chapter 7

I didn’t know anything about my father. When I get home, I am going to punch Jenna Herbert in the throat. She was the one who told me I would regret not attending my birth pod’s funeral. She was so very wrong. I don’t want to meet misplaced relatives. These people are not human to me. How could they be after what they did? Does this guy think he gets a pass by claiming he didn’t know, and what does he want? I don’t have much, but people with less see it differently.

I feel panic tightening my chest. I have been convinced this family was poison, that they had participated in the heinous beginning of my trauma, and I can’t take one of them now, trying to convince me I have importance as a member of a majorly fucked-up genealogy line. I need to get out of here. I stand, and Mitch stands with me and puts his hands up, palms out. In a soothing voice, like he’s talking to a frightened animal, he coaxes me to stay with that low baritone voice.

“Easy, cowgirl.” Okay, that’s cute, and for some reason, it does calm me a bit. “Please let me finish, it may be the only time I get to talk to you. Please. Let me make it count.” I don’t move. The manager comes over.

“Everythang alright, Mitch?” The manager is a middle-aged, short, bottle blonde with drawn-on eyebrows, which are currently raised to her hairline. She has that Texas twang found only in the East Texas Piney Woods. Her eyes are focused on me.

“All good, Sally, just came from Kellye’s funeral.” This seems to take the wind out of Sally’s sails, and she backs away from me.

“Okay, let me know if you need anything.” She retreats behind the counter yet continues to eye me. I lower myself slowly into the booth. Mitch does the same. His face relaxes, as do his shoulders, as he regains composure. I wait and watch him. I have no reference point for this interaction, so I say nothing.

“Your momma.” He sees me stiffen at the reference. He changes the approach.

“Kellye wouldn’t see me when I first got back to Texas. They shipped her down to Sugarland to do her time. She was pregnant with another child when she went in. I don’t know whose it was.” He looks down at the table, so I do too. His hands are shaking. He stumbles over his next words.

“That baby was born while she was inside and...” He is emotional, and I can’t imagine why. It wasn’t his kid. I shrug internally. The trauma has left me emotionally stunted and socially stupid. I have found non-reaction to be the best reaction. This lack of socialization is the reason I work with dogs and veterans who are almost as messed up mentally as I am.

“The kid was scalded to death by a prison guard. The guard claimed Kellye paid him to get rid of it when it was born.” Tears are riding on his lower eyelids.

How do I respond to the murder of a half-brother I didn’t know existed? Mitch is crying. Apparently, he has enough emotion for both of us.

“How did she have money to pay an assassin?” From the look on his face, it was the last question he thought I would ask. Now he is studying me. At least he is no longer crying.

“Well, she was convicted of embezzlement. They never found the money, so I guess she used some of that.”

“What happened to the rest? How much did she steal?” He looks hurt but answers my question.

“Three-quarter mil. She sank my family’s tow boat company, no pun intended. We had to sell the boats to pay debts. It killed my dad. He had a heart attack when the bank told him.” He puts his elbows on the table, clasps his hands together, and leans his right cheek on them. “That’s not really what I wanted to discuss, but you should have that picture too.” Mitch is nice, I decide. It’s an oversimplified assessment, but it’s where I am at in the moment.

“Tell me,” I say. My request seems to help him focus.

“There’s no way to say this but straight out. She told me she sold you. I been looking for you ever since.” I don’t react to the statement. It is obvious that it surprises him.

“You knew?” I nod.

“I placed an envelope with the canceled check and the ‘adoption’ papers in her coffin.” He shakes his head, and a smile creeps onto his face.

“Sarcasm was one of her funniest traits. I like that you did that.” He chuckles. “I like that a lot.”

“Her actions sent me down an excruciating road. But the lawyer showing up at my door three days ago made me realize she was so much worse than I thought.” Mitch cocks his head; his long hair is poofy over his ears like a cocker spaniel. I recognize it, I often see it in the mirror when I first wake up.

“What happened?”

“She gave me a $500 check and explained to me that ‘my mother’ and I use that term as loosely as possible, had never given up parental rights to me, and did not want me challenging the will, and the way to do that in Texas is to provide some compensation that can’t be challenged. I put that check in the envelope too”. Mitch looks stunned.

“Apparently, Mommie Dearest used the money she stole from your family to start a multi-million dollar corporation, and she wanted to make sure I wouldn’t have any claim on her fortune.

“Mitch, that funeral program listed nine kids, ones born before me, and after. I wasn’t on the list, of course, but why was I the one she singled out…” I stop and breathe; I don’t want to name the horror or open the locked door where I keep those memories. Taking a calming breath, I ask the question that has been burned into my soul most of my life. “Why was I the only one she sold?”

Chapter 8

“Because even though she was married to me when the older ones were born, and to someone else when the rest were born, you were the only one that was mine.”

Hours later, for the first time in my life, I hug my father goodbye. As we parted, he asked me a question that seemed important to our relationship going forward.

“Grey, do you fish?”

“No.” I watched his face at my answer. He smiled and slapped me on the back.

“Me either. Will you and your wife meet me at the lake on Sunday? I can’t wait to meet her.”

“We will be there.”

Jenna Herbert was right, and I owe her dinner. I think we will bring her to the lake with us on Sunday so she can meet her prediction of discovering something new, as I buried the monster so many others loved.