A Rainy Farewell to a Dear Friend

by Charles C. Cole

The exquisitely attired talking heads on TV had warned local listeners: nowhere outside was safe this day. The wind howled through the oppressive gloom. What was he thinking? The dizzy tall trees swayed and moaned high over Denny’s hooded head. This was a noble undertaking, to be sure, while the opposite of prudent, stumbling alone at dusk down the narrow gravel trail to the family crypt, exposed to the wind-tossed elements in a storm of historical proportions.

Lena had required certain assurances before letting go of life. Five years before, Denny had made a sacred promise to his dying mother that he would always visit on her birthday, rain or shine or, unexpectedly, 100-year New England nor’easter. His left heel slid out from under him, greased on slick leaf litter, and Denny dropped squarely onto his tailbone. Overlarge poncho be damned, he was drenched and sore and spooked.

Breaking with tradition one time out of a generous amount of caution would not deem him any less of a devoted mama’s boy. Right? To those reputed noncorporeal overseers who kept score of mortal deeds, and misdeeds, would Denny still be good enough to merit an afterlife reservation among the virtuous?

“I can’t do it, Mama!” he called into the din. “I am a failure at grief. Forgive me. I’m sorry to let you down, again. Just look on me and have pity for your only begotten son. If I visit tonight, if I really go through with this, I just might end up staying for all eternity - and I know how much you like your personal space.”

This last part was painfully true. While Lena had been bedridden her last week of radiation treatment, certain the end was nigh, the two of them had begun to review every detail she’d envisioned for her perfect funeral: her favorite hymns, the relevant Bible passages, the catty seating arrangements, the family-friendly anecdotes from a full and colorful life.

* * *

Lena, makeup perfectly in place as if she were in the green room waiting to be televised for an awards show, shook her bewigged head suddenly. “I have to ask: Are we jumping the gun, dear? All this planning, but I might have many months yet.” Resistance? Denial?

“Mrs. Cole, the longest-serving teacher to grace Windham Public Schools, I must reluctantly remind you that your urine is as black as Iago’s fevered aspirations. The nurse says your kidney’s failing. It won’t be long. I refuse to make these decisions without you.”

“There are times,” she began, “when honesty is the polar opposite of gentility. This is one of those times.”

“Signor Paparazzo has retired for the night; nobody’s eavesdropping. We’re alone. You can let your ugly side out.”

“I’ll do no such thing. I’ll have couth, even if I must grasp it with trembling hands. I will be a lady to my dying breath. And you will be my little gentleman.”

“Mama, I need your strength. I am very close to cursing. You don’t want to hear my angry thoughts. Please.”

She gently tapped him on the tip of his nose. “You’re right, dear, of course. Now’s as good a time as any. What about Saturday? What’s the weather forecast for Saturday?”

“Rain all day,” he said, bracing for a negative reaction.

“Perfect. Nothing says emotional turmoil like a blustery day. Let them think I’m taking the sunshine with me. Our friends in the community will have nothing better to do. No picnics, no beaches, no excuses.”

“Father Terence will already be primed and ready because of Old Man Cronyn’s service earlier in the day.”

“Cronyn passed? So sad. He had a crush on me back when you were too small to notice. I thought he died years ago. He did well for someone in an institution. But two funerals in one day. How exhausting!”

“It’s out of your hands.”

“No, I’ll go Sunday after Mass, even if they have to store me in a walk-in freezer overnight. I will not be part of a drive-in double feature - and have people falling asleep in the pews. We’re doing Father a favor. He’ll have the afternoon to rest up. And I’ll have the hall to myself. I will, won’t I?”

“As far as I know, based on all available information at this time.”

“And the weather?” asked Lena. “Still wet and wild?”

“Overcast and windy, but the rain will have stopped.”

“Fine. A subtle statement. That was my whole life: subtlety. It’s like we planned it.”

* * *

“Did you plan this, Mama?” asked Denny, as if the weighty conversation were still ongoing, years later. “Is this the final test?” Denny leaned his back against the leeward side of a tree, pulling his hood down over his forehead. “Face it, Mrs. Cole. This is the weather you really wanted, a little late, plenty over the top, but all you, sweetie.”

A voice called just then, from a living human who loved him. His wife, Becca. Beyond the bounds of logic, she had followed, holding tightly onto a bucking black umbrella with two hands. “Denny, come back to the car.”

“I can’t, I’m stuck...”

“You are?”

“Between a rock and a hard place.”

“She’ll understand.”

“You never met her. Everything was black and white to her. Either you were with her or you were against her.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“It’s a test. She said I’d never marry.”

“You did, though.”

“What if she’s angry?”

“It’s a storm. We’ll come back.”

“I love you!” he called.

“Then come home,” she said, adding, “Lena, I’m willing to share him, just not today, not under these circumstances.”

They held wet hands and bent into the gale.

“I hate deathbed promises,” he said. “Promise me no promises.”

“That’s an easy one: you’re going first. Let’s go home and dry off.”

“What if we lose power?”

“We’ll drink wine and play Scrabble in front of the fireplace.”

“Life is for the living,” he said. “Talk soon, Mama.”

“Congratulations! You’ve passed the test.”