The Dress

Rob's adopted mother is dead, and he finds himself on his own. First order of business, the funeral... and dealing with an annoying Aunt that has always been as artificial as her accent.

THE DRESS

Mom was dead.  And I was alone.

And in that instant, everything changed.  In fact, it has never been the same.  At age twenty-three, I was a “grown-up,” the head of the household of a family of one.

Myself.

Lucky me.

*****

When my friend Jon had found out about my mom later that day, he wasted no time in coming over.  After the “I'm sorry['s]” were said, Jon offered to help me out over the next few days in any way he could.

“You are not driving your mother's car all the way up to the funeral.”  Jon said.

“Well, I don't see how I have a choice,” I said.  “How else am I going to get up there?”

My mother's car at that point was on its last legs.  In fact, about two weeks after mom died, her car also gave up the ghost.

“I'll drive you up there in my car.”

“Are you sure?  It's a long way.  And I don't want to impose.”

Jon shook his head.  “It's no imposition.  I'm not working at present, remember?  It's not like I have to be anywhere.”

This was true.  Jon, who had landed a good job at a large company in the area, had felt the corporate crunch when he was let go a couple of weeks before.  He was free.  So why not take advantage of the opportunity?

I pursed my lips, appreciative of my friend's gesture.  “All right,” I said.  “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Jon said.  “After all, you'd do it for me, right?”

“Of course.”

And I would have, too.

In truth, Jon driving me up home for my mother's funeral proved to be for him somewhat of a culture shock.

“Why is that mound on fire in that guy's yard?”  Jon asked.

“Just someone burning their garbage, that's all.”

“They burn their garbage up here?”

I grinned.  “You're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

Jon and I were to drive over to see my aunt Elsa after we had arrived and gotten our motel room.  My aunt owned a large farm on which she raised livestock and grew vegetables.  The oldest sibling from my adoptive mother's first marriage, she was considerably older than me, early sixties to my twenty-three.  In short, I was not particularly fond of Elsa.  This would be the first time I'd seen her in over five years, due to a huge falling out involving Elsa and my mother.

“I don't know about this.  My mother would shoot me if she knew I told Elsa that she had died.”

“C'mon,” Jon said.  "She's your mother's daughter.  It's not right for her not to know.”

“Yeah, I guess.”  I nodded out of the window.  “Here, pull off here.  That's my aunt's place.”

“It's big,” Jon said.

“It” was a large, three-story colonial style farmhouse with approximately ten rooms and an enclosed porch.  It also featured a detached two-car garage.  Directly behind the house was a metal barn with horses, cows and pigs.   Metal, because my aunt's old wooden barn was struck by lightning some years before.  The old wooden barn, which sat right off of the main drag, used to have painted on its side the message “You're in God's Country.”  Behind the house and stretching for at least some forty acres was the rest of my aunt's land.  At the far end, where a small residential area was split in half by a small side road off of the main road, sat two homes.  One was a ranch style dwelling, while the other was a large Keystone split level.  These were the homes of my cousins Riley and Will, who were deeded land by their parents.  My aunt wanted to have all four of her children living on her land.  And since Junior (the eldest) was in the process of doing just that and Trudy (the second eldest) was still holding out, Elsa was three quarters of the way there.

“God, this must be worth a couple million,” Jon said.

I shook my head.  “Not around here.  This isn't central Jersey.  If it was, yes.  This would probably be worth at least a million-and-a-half, maybe two.  But up here, probably more like a half-million or so.”

“Humphf.”

“You know how my aunt got this place?”

“No, how?”

“My adoptive mother and father gave them the down payment.  Two thousand dollars.  This was back in the fifties.”

Jon looked at me.  “Instead of buying it for them, they should have bought it for themselves.”

“Agreed.”

But as it was, my parents, who had a lot of money at the time, decided to move to Brooklyn, NY and then to New Jersey, where they eventually bought a small duplex.  The same house I had lived in since I was a baby.  A house in desperate need of repair-- any wealth once acquired by my parents over the years eventually dissipated into oblivion.  I guess Jon and I were on the same wavelength.  I could have-- should have been-- where Elsa was now.  At least, in a monetary sense.  And to two kids from lower middle class families, that type of missed opportunity was a tragedy.

Jon pulled his car into Elsa's driveway and cut the engine.  I looked over to the back door, where Elsa stood in its frame, waiting for us.  I waved, Elsa waved back.

“So that's her, huh?”

“That's her.”

Elsa was a woman of sixty-three, somewhere between heavy-set and voluptuous.  She featured long, curly blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.  The blonde hair reminded me of my maternal mother's hair (Elsa's younger sister, Kitty).  One could also definitely see traces of my adoption mother's features in Elsa's face.  All-in-all, Elsa was still attractive and, like her mother Rita when she was still alive, did not look her age.

“Hi, Elsa,” I said.

Elsa, teary-eyed, held out her arms.  I went to her.

“Hi, Rob,” Elsa said.  “It's good to see you again.”

“And you.”

Elsa let up on her embrace and eyed Jon.  “And this is your friend, huh?”

I smiled.  “Jon, this is Elsa.  Elsa, Jon.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.  Thanks for bringing my nephew up here.  It's a long trip.”

“It is,” Jon said.  “But you're welcome.”

Elsa turned her head inside the door.   “Bob!  Bob!”  She yelled out.

“What?”  Came a rather loud reply from somewhere inside the house.

“Rob's here with--”

“What?”

“Rob's here with his friend from New Jersey,” Elsa said.  She looked at Jon with a smile.  “He's getting hard of hearing,” she said.

Soon an average-sized man with brown hair and eyes that sported a mustache and long sideburns came into view behind Elsa.  This was Bob; Elsa's husband, my uncle.

“Welcome,” Bob said.  He had a deep, very loud voice with a distinctive Pennsylvania accent.  He held out his hand in greeting, which I accepted.  “How was the trip up?”

Jon, unsure of himself, took this as a question directed at him.  “It wasn't bad,” he said.

Bob grinned.  “I guess you've never been to an area like this before,” he said.

“No,” Jon said.   “I can't say that I have.  But it's interesting.  And very pretty here, that's for sure.”

“Let's go inside,” Elsa said.  “We can sit in the dining room.  It's better than standing out here, for God's sake.”

*****

The better part of the next hour was basically spent talking about mom.  And, much to my silent consternation, much of the conversation concerning mom was that she should have done this or that, she was told to do this or that and she didn't.  In my opinion, this was a direct allusion on Elsa's part to the falling out mom and she had some five years before.  This falling out occurred when mom and I had politely refused to stay at Elsa's house when up home.  There were several reasons for this, but the most important were that 1.) we wanted to come and go as we pleased, and 2.) we just didn't feel comfortable at Elsa and Bob's place.  After Bob's anger had boiled over to the point of a loud, unfriendly shouting match between mom and himself in the parking lot of the motel we always stayed at (mom basically told her son-in-law to “go to hell,” for “that's where you're headed”), both sides discontinued contact.  This was the status quo until just a few days ago.  Afraid that I would say something unpleasant, I decided to end the conversation.

“I think that we should be going over to the funeral home,” I said.  “Marvin will be waiting for us.”

“We should let him wait,” Elsa said.  “God knows he can afford it.”

This dialogue exchange between Elsa and myself referred to Marvin White, the funeral director.  It was approximately five miles from Elsa's place to the funeral home, located in Orbson, Rita's birthplace.  The trip over gave Jon and I some time alone, away from Elsa and Bob.  We followed them in Jon's small car.  Jon was somewhat incised, to say the least.

“You know, your aunt acts like everybody has money but her, yet she has this huge farm with what?  Forty acres?  And plus, she's driving around in what looks to me like a brand new Cadillac.”

“This is true,” I said with a sigh.

It was true.  At least three times in the past hour at Elsa's, my aunt and her husband mentioned that times were hard all around, and that they struggled to make ends meet.  But this conflicted with what I knew about the area and what Jon and I witnessed.  I knew that the area that Elsa lived in was considered one of the most isolated, underdeveloped regions in the entire state.   Business and technology just didn't come here, because the area was very rugged and surrounded by mountains.  In addition, the entire area was mostly made up of farmers and bricklayers who had anywhere from eight to twelve years of education.  Someone like Elsa's eldest son Junior, who held a two-year degree in surveying, was definitely one of the more advantaged.  In fact, within a thirty mile stretch, there were only two or three businesses present.  One of these was a hydraulic equipment company, while the others were brick yards.  There were no technology centers of which to speak, as there were in central New Jersey.  If someone made twenty-five to thirty-five thousand dollars a year up here, he or she could live very comfortably.  Elsa had let it slip that she paid close to ten thousand dollars in property tax.  But there also was no mortgage.  It had been paid off at least ten years before, if not considerably earlier.  The chances, therefore, that the farm brought in a substantial amount more than the average local salary was almost definite.  Especially when one threw in what appeared to be a brand new expensive car which would carry full insurance coverage.

So.  If my aunt did so well for herself, why was she acting like she wasn't?

“And another thing,” Jon said, “what's with that accent of hers?”

I had to laugh.  “Yes, annoying, isn't it?”

“Very.  It almost sounds as if she's putting it on.”

Elsa's strange accent was a mystery, albeit an amusing one.  It was definitely not the accent of someone from western Pennsylvania.  It sounded more like someone from the deep south, although much more prolonged on certain stresses.  The problem with this theory of origins was that, to the best of my knowledge, Elsa had never been to the deep south.  According to my mother, Elsa had gotten her accent as a result of being a big Kitty Wells fan.  When doing covers of her songs growing up, Elsa would apparently attempt to imitate Kitty's singing style.  I did see parallels between Elsa's accent and Kitty's voice, but I wasn't totally convinced that Kitty was the definitive source.

“Your aunt sings?”  Jon asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I said.   “She's actually a good singer.  Bob and her have their own bluegrass-gospel band.  He plays guitar.  They have even cut an album or two, and have been on the local TV and radio stations.”

“Humphf.”

Berkich 8

“All of my family on this side is very musically inclined.”

“And who is Kitty Wells again?”

*****

Marvin White was the proprietor of the Marvin White Funeral Home in Orbson.  He had undertaken several funerals for family members, including those of my grandparents, my maternal mother and adoption father.  A friendly type, Marvin was also one of the most influential and wealthy men in the area.  In addition to the funeral home, Marvin also owned a real estate agency and an insurance company.  It seemed that Elsa and Bob, the heads of one of the most influential families in the area, did not particularly accept the extent of Marvin's influence.

“Hi, folks,” Marvin said.  He shook hands with each of us in turn.

“Marvin,” Elsa said.  “How are you?”

“Fine, Elsa, just fine.  And you?”

“Oooh, I'm fine, I guess,” Elsa said.  She glanced at Jon and me.  “We're all doing the best we can.”

“Yes, we are.”

Several years before her death, mom and I had made a trip to Marvin's funeral home so that mom could make her final arrangements.  Although an insightful action on her part, the past half-hour in Marvin White's presence had proved this bit of insight worthless.  When mom had planned her funeral, she unfortunately spared no expense.  Mom had requested a top-of-the-line casket and vault, which was way out of the range of the extremely meager insurance policy that would be the only monetary resource available to bury her.  It was apparent that there would be no financial assistance from Elsa and Bob in this regard.  This got me, because I figured that although Elsa wouldn't jump at 

the opportunity to help out her estranged nephew, she would at least like to see her mother's final wishes fulfilled.

“Boy, that's a lot of money,”  Elsa said.  “What was mom thinking about?  Who could afford that?  We couldn't, could we, Bob?”

“No, sir,” Bob said.  HIs laugh was a little too enthusiastic for my taste.

Berkich 9

I was incised, to say the least.  For another five-thousand dollars, mom would have what she wanted.  I wished that I could have given it to her, but I couldn't.

“So, what can I get for around five-thousand?”

“Let me show you,” Marvin said.

Thankfully, a monument wasn't needed.  Mom would be buried beside dad, and the existing monument was designed for a couple in death.  I picked out the nicest casket and vault I could, within the range of the policy.  And although the policy would cover the expense, there would not be a penny left.  It was at this exact moment that I learned an important lesson:  from here on out, you come first.  I had made up my mind that the entire insurance policy would not go to Marvin.  He would get half, and I would get the other half.  He would just have to wait for the rest.  At this point, I needed it more than Marvin did.

So,  with the question of the casket and the vault squared away, there was one remaining item to consider.

“Now according to the notes that I have here, Rita requested a blue dress.  Would you like to see what we have?”

“OK.”

Marvin took us into another room where he had a variety of dresses and other clothes laid out.  

“This row here is what we have in blue.”

Elsa and I shuffled through the selection of eight or ten dresses on the table until we had narrowed it down to one that we both liked.

“This one here?”

“That one.”

The next words out of Elsa's mouth came as a surprise, to say the least.

“Bob and I will pay for the dress.  Is that all right?”

“That's fine,” I said.  “Thanks.”

“You're welcome,” Elsa said.   “And we'll give something to the preacher at the funeral, so don't worry about it, OK.?”

“OK.”

*****

What was the funeral like?  Like all funerals.  People you haven't seen for years or had never met at all show up from somewhere to pay their final respects or, at least, to make a showing.  To these people, mom was many things-- a friend, a sister, a cousin, an aunt, a grandmother or a mother.  She could also have been someone that they had heard about, the matriarch of a large and very influential local family.  There was a part of mom that was like a legend.  And another part like a mystery.  In a way, she was all of these things.  In short, a dichotomy.  As we all are, I guess.

“So, you were Rita's oldest daughter.”

“Yes, I'm the oldest.”

“And Rob is your br--”

“My nephew.  He's my younger sister's boy.  She died a while back.”

“I see.  So, what will happen to Rob, now?  Is he going to stay in Jersey, do you 

think?”

“I don't know.  I wish he'd come up here.  After all, we're his family.  We love him.”

“And then you could help him out.”

“Yeah.  We'd help him in any way we could.  He knows that, I hope.”

“Did you help out with the funeral expenses?”

“Yes.  Bob and I were there at the arrangements.  I paid for mom's dress.”

“It's nice.”

“Thank you.”  A smile.  'And we're also paying the preacher, too.”