Lenora Penn's Funeral
Lenora Penn died the way she lived. Quietly, alone, and tidy as a pin. Father Kelly found her sitting in the ladder back chair at the little writing desk by the window. She held the weekly church bulletin in her right hand - a half full glass of milk sat spoiling on an ancient doily atop the trim, uncluttered desk. Her head lay cheek down, left cheek, eyes were wide open as if they were taking that one last look through the large living room window onto her front yard. The same window Father Kelly peered in to discover the corpse. Lenora’s lips were drawn together and pulled slightly down at the corners in her ever present frown. In death, just like in life, excitement seemed to have escaped her. Father thought to himself as he looked down at the peaceful corpse, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lenora smile.” Lenora wasn’t elderly, even though it seemed to those who knew her and attended mass with her, that she had always been an old lady. She was only 67.
“I knocked on the door, and there was no answer. Lenora knew I was coming over, I always come over to go over the final draft of this week's bulletin on Wednesday morning. When there was no answer I looked in the window, and there the poor soul sat, dead.”
Will Ayers patted Father Kelly on the back and signaled his assistant to wheel Lenora out to the Hearse. “I’ve known Lenora for years, Father. Lenora was one of the first people I met when we bought the funeral Home and moved to Burkes Creek. We went to mass together, we worked on the new rectory committee together, and more than once I’ve been in this living room drinking coffee and eating cake, but for the life of me I can’t remember ever hearing her mention her family or her childhood.”
The two men followed the gurney out the front door into the cold and wind-swept november morning. While it was not snowing yet, the gray sky and frigid humidity were a South-Central Nebraska omen of what was to come. After helping his driver gently load Lenora into the hearse, Ayres shook hands with the somber priest.
“I guess I can round up some men from the church to be pallbearers for the service.” Father said more to himself than to the mortician. “I imagine Lenora had some money put away in the bank, that should cover the funeral expenses. Let me know what she owes for your services Will, if her savings won’t cover it I’m sure the parish can help out.””
“Father,” the town's sole mortician gently clutched the priest’s elbow, “All of that is taken care of. Just last July, right after the fourth, Lenora pre-paid for her funeral, coffin and burial plot. She came to me with detailed plans for her funeral including music, pall bearers and scripture passages. Her monument had also been pre-paid and old Art Swanson out at the stoneworks has everything but the date of passing already on the stone.”
The following Saturday morning Father Kelley had his six pallbearers, and four altar boys ready and waiting at the mortuary. Catholic funerals always had a different flair. The church sat directly across the street to the West from the funeral home. It was customary for the pall bearers to carry the coffin across the street and up the front steps of the church, straight down the center aisle to the catafalque positioned between the altar and the front row of pews. Returning the deceased to the hearse parked at the funeral home was executed in reverse order at the end of the service.
The six men Lenora selected to carry her to her final resting place were not the group the pastor had expected at all. When Will Ayers shared with him Lenora’s choices to carry her coffin he was puzzled, if not completely shocked. Not one of the chosen were who Father Kelley expected to be on the list.
Ross and Francis Wells are two brothers who farm south of town along the river. The brothers' attendance at mass was occasional at best. Father could not recall the last time he saw either of the bachelor brothers at mass. Their attendance at the tavern every evening, however, was perfect. Father Kelley had nothing against an occasional drink, he often had a glass or two of scotch in the evening himself. The problem with the Wells brothers was they did not stop at one or two, and more nights than not they ended up in a fist fight, usually with each other.
Al Baxter was way too old and feeble to be carrying a coffin, or anything else for that matter. . Al’s wife Bethany passed away 7 or 8 years ago, since then Al never misses daily mass. Half-blind and deaf as hell Al was always a half-beat behind in responses and prayers, and often fell asleep snoring like a rusty chain saw long before communion. Lenora would wake him up and walk him out the front door, making sure he made it on his way home two houses north of the church. I’m sure she figured as many times as she escorted him out of the church it would only be fitting he would be there for her final escort.
Timmy Kile was just two years out of high school. Timmy worked with his dad at the lumber yard and played guitar in a country band on the weekends. He still lived at home with his parents and was in mass every sunday morning no matter what scattered corner of Southern Nebraska or Northern Kansas his band had been playing the night before. Timmy’s mom Rita had disagreed with Lenora years ago over how the pies were displayed and served at the Altar Society Bazaar. The two ladies, despite often working on the same project for the parish, hadn’t spoken since. Selecting Timmy as a pallbearer may have been Lenora’s way of burying the hatchet, or it may have been a message to Rita. You know, “I’m going to be a burden to your family right up until the moment they lower me into that 6 foot hole and start shoveling dirt in.”
Then there was Burdett Toliver. The meanest son of a bitch in three counties. When Burdett wasn’t beating his wife he was participating in illegal dog fights in barns and farmyards all over the midwest. Burdette drank more than most men, but he never missed mass. He sat right up front with Elaine, his wife, sang every hymn at the top of his lungs and was the first person in line for communion.
And lastly Lenora had chosen Gibby Gilbert. Of course Gibby wasn’t his real name, but he’d been Gibby since he was a toddler and no one ever called him anything else. Gibby weighed 115 pounds soaking wet. He owned a shoe store in town that sold fewer and fewer shoes each week. It was a running joke in town that Gibby drank a pint of Canadian Club for every pair of shoes he sold and he hadn’t been drunk in ten years.
Even as he was giving the alter boys last minute instructions on their task and position during the short procession across the street, up the stairs to the church and down the aisle to alter, all but one of the chosen men were standing outside the mortuary in the icy wind smoking, and more than likely sharing a flask magically produced from coat pocket of one of the Wells Brothers. Timmy, not yet legal drinking age, made sure he took a big pull every time the flask came his way. Al was asleep in a metal folding chair snoring like the devil.
The crew of altar boys were hand chosen by the finicky priest. The Jensen brothers - Ronnie and Lars. Both great altar boys who always took their duties seriously and seemed to always be in sync with each other and Kelley during Mass. Patrick O’Leary was a seasoned altar boy, who at times could be a handful, but he had served countless funerals and was the best Father had at preparing the incense. Then there was Twelve Gauge. His real name was David Hensley, but no one called him that. Twelve Gauge was much older than the rest of the altar boys, he had served for years and would probably continue to because of one small factor. Twelve Gauge was a dwarf.
The procession had Lars Jensen in front carrying a large crucifix. Father Kelly was right behind Lars with a rosary entwined in his hands as he prayed loudly enough for the Good Lord to hear, but not loud enough for anyone else’s ears. Ronnie Jensen carried the holy water and walked to the right of Father Kelly. The six pallbearers followed the priest with Ross Wells, Burdette Tolliver and Gibby Gilbert on one side of the coffin,and Frances Wells, Timmy Kile, and Al Baxter on the other side. Each man gripping the brass rails of the coffin with a bit of tipsy confidence and a bundle of drunken courage. The minute they stepped out of the mortuary and onto the sidewalk Lenora’s procession turned from bad to worse. For one thing The sidewalk was icy from the recent sleet and snow. An icy, slick sidewalk meant the street would be even more icy, and finally every pallbearer except Al Baxter was drunk as hell. As the altar boys stepped onto the street Lars slipped, almost stumbled but caught his balance. He turned to Father Kelley and exclaimed “It's really slick Father, be extra careful.”
“I will be fine Lars, but I’m a little worried about the pallbearers.”
Father Kelley’s worries were well founded. As the pallbearers began their short skate across the street it was immediately clear some sort of disaster was imminent. First, Gibby Gilbert began to slip and slide in his old wingtips like a drunken ice skater. His sliding caused poor old Al Baxter to to completely lose his grip on the coffin and fall square on his ass. As soon as Al fell Gibby slid feet first under the coffin and lost his grip. Timmy Kile, the poor kid, tried to grab the handle Al Baxter had recently vacated and he began slipping and sliding until he face planted. At that point two things happened simultaneously. The other three pallbearers, way too drunk to in their dress shoes and cowboy boots on an icy city street slipped, slid, and slammed into the icy street. Twelve Gauge, short in stature but long on guts, dove and latched on to the back of the coffin. Now, unencumbered by the rag tag lot schlepping poor Lenora to her final mass, the coffin began a downhill skate down the icy street with 12-gauge holding on for dear life, sliding belly first with both arms gripping the back rail of the casket. As the coffin-dwarf combo picked up speed the dazed group of pallbearers, altar boys and one horrified priest were powerless to do anything but watch. Ross Wells, now sitting on his butt in the middle of the street pulled the flask from his coat pocket, took a long pull and hollered, “Hang on twelve-gauge, it’ll be a hell of a ridel”
As the coffin neared the intersection Father Kelley crossed himself, Timmy began crying and Francis Wells, grabbing the flask from his inebriated brother bellered, “Ride it twelve-gauge, don’t let go now!” An 18 wheeler approached the intersection from the East at the same time as a four wheel drive pickup approached from the west. Like a miracle The coffin, with twelve gauge belly first, and swearing far louder than Father Kelly's frantic prayers, slipped across the intersection right between the two oncoming vehicles and slammed into a parked station wagon.
The lid of the coffin flew open as twelve gauge spun sideways and rolled to a stop. The men, boys and panic stricken priest all slipped and slid across the intersection and up to the coffin as fast as their dress shoes and drunken legs would allow. Approaching the coffin each man, with a scent of reverence and a stab of curiosity peaked inside. There snuggled in the lily white satin lining was Lenora Penn with a rosary entwined in her fingers, her glasses still intact, and a smile spread widely across her lips.
Burdette Toliver grabbed the flask from Ross Wells, took a long hard pull on it and exclaimed, “Damn, that’s the first time I ever saw that old bat smile.”
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