An Invitation

CW: Themes and/or references to gun violence, self harm, and suicide

It was supposed to be an ordinary event, sad yes, but nothing strange. And yet, from the beginning, something didn’t seem right. Starting with that mysterious choir, all bearing a yellow feather in their hat, responding in an automatic, robotic way to any trigger. 

Everything was ready. The invitations went out and all the rsvp’s were received. Everyone said ‘yes’! And now, they were all here. I chose a private room in a beautiful historic home just outside the city. Why do it in a religious setting, the occasion is already somber enough without adding some gloomy icons covering the walls as some equally gloomy holy man recites his well-rehearsed liturgy. Besides, who could do it, Herman, my father, and the deceased, being a Jewish/Buddhist/Agnostic/Hindu? Is there such an anointed soul of such a hybrid belief system in existence? The closest I could come was Harry, a fellow I met decades ago when we were both wannabee jazz singers in NY, hanging out at open mic showcases until the wee hours of the morning, sitting in smoked filled rooms sipping some sweet alcoholic drink, to both lubricate our vocal cords and calm our nerves simultaneously. Harry had a Nat King Cole kind of voice , soothing and sultry, but one that also tended to lull the late-night crowd to sleep. It wasn’t uncommon to find some guy with his face on the table, smack in the plate where his pasta was half eaten. Years later I found out Harry was leading some kind of spiritual group with no real godhead or belief system to call its own. Harry used this pulpit as the chance to be the singer he always wanted to be. He’d just slip in a mix of liturgical hymns here, a biblical verse there, even some Negro spirituals to cover all bases. When he received the invitation to lead the service, he jumped at the offer, almost jubilant at the chance to entertain a whole new audience, almost forgetting the reason for the occasion. Suddenly aware, he retreated into himself sheepishly.

It was a warm spring day, and the windows were open just enough to let a breeze glide through the room gently washing over the congregants as it passed. That and the fragrance of freshly cut lilacs filled the room with a sweetness befitting a different kind of celebration. Maybe an engagement, or a baby naming. Surely, not this.

The room filled with a respectful hum as people filed in, some nodding to each other as they recognized one another from long ago, offering a quiet greeting, mindful of the solemn occasion. It was only AnnMarie, our mother’s sylish sister, not one for reverence, who waltzed in with a freshly groomed little white thing tucked under her left armpit, stopping along the way to her seat so admirers could ooh and aah the creature. Susie tried to pet him, only to be met with a yelp as the pretty little pooch tried to take a bite out of her hand, just inches from the vein she tried to open last year at her New Year’s eve party.

I spotted Herbert, my younger brother, a few rows away, holding hands with Gretchen, the twenty something beauty who stole Herbie’s heart and other body parts that had not yet belonged to her at Susie’s party. Both seemed impervious to Susie’s embarrassment; rejection, yet again, but this time by a four-legged little snot. But Susie, now having perfected the smile that seemed permanently plastered on her face, pulled her hand away, and like the lady she was, rested it demurely in her lap.

There was a row of elderly women sitting up front, all wearing small black suede hats, each with a singular yellow feather, pointing East as if in a chorus line. Who were these people? Right behind them was a row of elderly men, in black suits, all wearing yellow shirts, a black bowler on their mostly bald heads, with a small yellow feather also, tucked into the side, each facing West. They sat very still, not saying a word to one another.

Max, our oldest brother, soon arrived with his little army in toe: his much younger wife, Mimi in her long black dress, covering every inch of her body and wearing the funereal wig she always wore at such occasions. She had an infant in one arm, and a two-year old clutching her right leg forcing Mimi to take careful, little baby steps. Right behind her were four other little ones, walking in line like little well-trained penguins, Max at the rear shepherding them in, careful not to accidentally misplace any. Sally, our mother, followed wearing the proud grandma face she always wore when with the family. The expression soon faded when at first the three year old declared she had go to potty, and suddenly the bunch of them decided they needed to go too. The infant started squirming out of Mimi’s arms as though she, too, wanted to join her sibs. And so they went.

Harry surveyed the room with the intent of starting the service when he noticed the little line of human penguins filing out of the room. Okay, he thought, we’ll just wait a bit until everyone is seated and settled. Just then the two rows of men and women with the little yellow feathers stood in unison, and began singing, musical eulogies in precise, well-rehearsed harmonic tones. Harry looked startled, what is this, he thought, and who are these people?

Several minutes later the little group of human penguins filed back into the room and took their seats. The yellow-feathered singers sat down as well, as if on cue.

All was quiet.

Harry began again, now certain that the room was ready for the service. All but Susie, it seemed she had something to say. As she stood the yellow-feathered group stood as well, and started humming a solemn tune. What the Sam Hill is this, thought Harry, who was starting to lose his cool with this odd behavior.

Susie began, in a low somber voice, hardly audible, she demanded to know what Herbert and his arm candy companion were doing there, who invited them, and why wasn’t she consulted? With each pointed accusation, the yellow-feathered men and women seemed to imitate her indignation with sharp, musical tones, as if punctuating each word with a dramatic chord . This is bizarre, thought Harry, but baffled, and at a loss of what to do, just stood there, perfectly still and watched.

As Susie continued, her voice took on a new confidence, becoming louder, clearer, and more accusatory. Pointing at Gretchen she reached into her bag as if to get a tissue, but instead pulled out a small hand gun. It almost looked like a toy. The yellow-feathered singers together, leaned back aghast, hand to mouth, now emitting a high, haunting tone.

Susie suddenly pointed the gun at the singers, ordering them to shut up, and just like that, in a flash, they did.

The babies started to cry now, damn thought Susie, who brings toddlers to a funeral anyway!? Now she turned around slowly, pointing the gun at Max and Mimi. They shuddered in horror, grabbing on to the children, protecting them from what might devolve into some hysterical tragedy.

Now the yellow-feathered chorus cowered, ducking under their seats, fearing for their lives. The music stopped.

Mimi screamed and Max reached over to muffle her screams, covering her mouth in a wild motion to stifle the notes of terror.

I tried to will myself to shrink, if not to disappear altogether. Susie wouldn’t shoot me, I thought, trying to console myself and keep the worst thoughts at bay.

A small whimpering sound trailed through the room, then a shot rang out, and now the little white ball of fluff fell listlessly from Ann Marie’s cradling arms.

Incredulous, and numb with fear, everything went silent, almost as if the room itself had held its breath.

Harry slid behind the pulpit, to the ground, out of sight. He slithered toward the rear entrance and made his way out of the building. Susie then issued orders to a group of us, by name, to enter the back room that had been used for viewing the deceased: Max, Herbert, Ann Marie, me. We could hear the door lock behind us.

We could also hear Susie barking more orders: everyone drop your cell phones, wallets, car keys and shoes into this basket, and leave this building. Some cried out in dissent, forgetting for a moment the gravity of the situation. Grumblings of ‘I can’t walk without my shoes, how will I drive my car without the keys’ and so on. Quiet! Susie then demanded, do as I say and get out!

And so they did. More shuffling, mumblings, and then all was quiet.

 I wondered if my dead father had witnessed any of this, had he heard the commotion? Was he angry not to get a proper send off? Do the dead retain some kind of consciousness before settling into their final resting place? Is there a soul that never dies? These thoughts tortured me. My father was a seeker, born into a family of interfaith marriages, part Jewish, part Christian, he sought answers from the cultures and belief systems both East and West. He was a gentle soul, with a quick mind, but one who rarely questioned the motives and actions of his somewhat less curious, more bourgeois wife, my mother Sally. He died a peaceful death, never ill, never complaining, at the age of 89, just never woke up one morning. He left the world as he’d found it, uncluttered, quiet. He simply went to sleep. Exactly what he deserved, and maybe even planned for? I loved him as much in death as in life, as his presence was always a gift: solid, unobtrusive, loving.

But now this?

Susie continued her tirade once she had her designated sinners all together. Did we not realize the damage we had all done, she asked, repeatedly. Badgering, begging for some answer. Did we not realize the pain, the hurt, the betrayal we inflicted on her? Had she not been the best , most generous, most loving wife, sister-in-law, daughter-in-law one family could ask for? She pleaded with us to tell her why, why was she treated in this dismal way? Were we sorry? Each one of us was made to beg for her forgiveness: speak it, shout it, write it, over and over again. We were ordered to get down on our knees and kiss her feet, beg her forgiveness, admit how wrong and unworthy we were of her goodness. She laughed at our feeble efforts to appease her, she wreaked with contempt for us. And then, suddenly, it was over.

Susie lay in the middle of our little circle, the pop of the gunshot as the little weapon she harbored burst in her mouth, at once silencing her torturous beseechment, dripping unmercifully with her blood.