Page 75 of Townshipped
A noise sounds in the distance—a rumbling, growing louder by the second. Within moments the pastor’s voice is drowned out by motorcycle engines. Not just any bikes. Those are Harleys. They were built to make their presence known.
My niece and nephew continue looking straight ahead. They seem used to chaos—so accustomed to it they don’t bat an eyelash at the disruption. All the other heads in the room turn to see the commotion at the back of the building as the double doors fly open and about six or seven men enter the building. One of them has a sling on his arm and light bruises across the left side of his face.
My aunt quietly gasps. Does she recognize these men? Or is she only upset at the disruption?
A group of women in studded leather, most of them wearing red bandanas in their hair, come walking in behind the men. When one of the gang pivots slightly, I see the words Final Driver embossed in red and white across the back of his leather jacket, indicating the name of their motorcycle club.
“Carry on,” the biggest man in the biker gang says to the pastor with a deep, burly growl. “We’re sorry to be late.”
His voice is unusually respectful when he apologizes, considering he looks like he could kill us all and go calmly eat a sandwich afterward. Maybe not a sandwich. He seems more like a burger man. With hot sauce. That kind of hot sauce that makes your eyes water and your nose leak snot. Only his nose won’t leak. It wouldn’t dare.
I shake my head.
The pastor follows the gruff suggestion of the intruding motorcycle gang leader and resumes the service. A few people take turns coming up to read various poems and scriptures. Then the soloist, a young woman in a flowing white, knee-length dress, stands and walks to the front of the chapel. She’s such a contrast to the crowd at the back of the room I have to blink.
She starts singing Amazing Grace.
Her voice is angelic, drawing all eyes to her. The airy, ethereal tone of her singing draws my attention beyond her to something lighter, full of hope and promise. My aunt dabs at her eyes. If I were closer, I’d place a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Uncle Mark reaches over the kids and wraps an arm around my aunt, drawing her to himself while placing his other hand on Ty’s small shoulder. Paisley leans back, and Aunt Deb puts a hand on her shoulder. They stand huddled together as the second verse begins.
I wish I could sponge up their pain. I feel like grabbing Van by the shoulders and shaking her for putting us all in this position, especially Ty and Paisley, who now are watching the angelic singer with rapt attention.
My thoughts are interrupted by another voice, low and solemn. I look toward the back of the chapel where the lead biker is standing with his hand to his heart like he’s performing the National Anthem. He’s crooning along with the soloist. His friends all start turning toward each other, pairing up, and … what are they doing?
Slow dancing.
To Amazing Grace.
At a funeral.
I look down at Em, who hasn’t released my hand. She’s stifling a smile. My muffled chuckle puffs out through my nostrils.
The soloist doesn’t miss a note. Neither does the president of the Final Drivers at the back of the room. They finish together and the group of leather-clad dancers disperse. But they remain standing along the back wall like they’re in a lineup, or as if they’ll shoot first and take names later. I’m going with the lineup analogy since it’ll help me sleep tonight.
The time comes for the eulogy and my dad stands. I had no idea he was the one officially commemorating my cousin. My respect for him ramps up a few notches. The look he gives my aunt and uncle as he steps to the podium says he’s trying to spare Mark and Deb any more pain than what they’re already enduring.
Dad talks about Van’s childhood, then he shares some memories of holidays spent together. He’s about to transition into talking about her adult years when a ringtone sounds through the chapel. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,”to be exact.
People look around. Dad tries to carry on. The slightly muffled disco-funk beat and lyrics blare through the room, which has the incredible acoustics you’d expect of a place of worship.
I half expect the bikers to do the iconic dance down the center aisle, zombie-style. Why not? It would definitely be on brand for the day we’re having.
Instead, I watch along with the rest of the congregation as a man in a black suit darts through the back doors and runs up the aisle. His head turns back and forth until he locks on to the sound of the phone and seems to zone in on the source of the music.
He slows when he appears to become aware that every eye in the room is riveted on him. Then he casually strolls directly to the casket, gives my father a nod, lifts the lid, and removes his phone. Pushing a button, he raises his cell and simply says, “Sorry.”
Em squeezes my hand. I squeeze hers back, not daring to look at her in case we catch the same uncontrollable laughter that overtook us last night.
My dad straightens his tie and continues sharing about Van, eloquently highlighting her strengths, while managing not to avoid mentioning her struggles. It’s honestly one of the best eulogies I’ve ever heard.
Usually at funerals no one wants to say anything but the positive, painting the deceased in a halo of light and perfection. Van’s spotty past and the way she died make it hard to ignore the herd of elephants in the room.
My dad pulled it off. He shared the sweet, funny, spunky side of my cousin and still kept the commemoration of her life real without demeaning her in the least. His shoulders relax as he walks down the steps from the pulpit.
The eulogy is followed with a moment of silence during which I allow some tears to fall. I picture Van visiting our home when we were little. There were a few years when we were in elementary school that we promised to grow up and marry one another before we knew any better.
Van had a rare sensitivity and thoughtfulness. Maybe that’s what made her turn to drugs. She felt everything as if her heart lived outside her body. The world can be an excessively cruel place for someone so tuned into emotion and heartache. And when Van was sober, she was a people-magnet. Her charismatic, larger-than-life personality filled rooms and hearts.
