Sunday, March 28, 2004
THE STRANGER
We were sitting on the couch, waiting for a movie to start.
"Oh," I said. “I almost forgot. My mother called. My Uncle Mitch died today.Or, maybe, yesterday; I'm not sure. Anyway, we have to drive down for a service on Tuesday."
"Is this going to be a big deal?" FW asked. "Wasn't he supposed to be some sort of well-known guy?"
"He was well-known in our family," I said. "All the time I was growing up I had to hear about Mitch. He was a spy in the war. He was at the Nuremberg Trials. He played cards with Harry Truman. He knew Kennedy. He was in Berlin when the wall went up. He'd been everywhere and done everything."
"Was any of it true?"
"Who knows," I said. "I've never come across his name in any of the standard histories of the war, or of the OSS, or the CIA. Who knows?"
"So what about Tuesday?"
"We have to drive down to Mitch Junior’s place. Then we all go to the church. Then it's back to Junior's - they're having a ham. Then home."
"That's going to be a long day,” FW said. “Maybe we can leave right after the service and get home at a decent hour."
"I think they'd be insulted if we skipped the ham," I said. "A ham's a big thing in Virginia. It's almost worth somebody dying, because then you get to have a ham."
"So, your mother told you all this stuff about your uncle when you were growing up? About what a great guy he was?"
"Right," I said. "It was pretty constant."
"How did that go over with your father?"
"At the time, I can't say I would have noticed, one way or the other."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
We were in the church, waiting for the service to start.
"This isn't such a great turnout, for one of the most famous men ever," FW said.
She was right. Mitch's children were there, none with spouses. FW and I. My mother, my brother and his wife. A few other assorted cousins. There were three old men in the last pew. No one knew who they were.
"Apparently, there was a problem with the obituary," I said. "The Post wouldn't print all the stuff Mitch did without independent verification. So they held the notice. It's supposed to appear later this week, if they can get the facts."
"What about Marlene's kids? FW asked. "Surely they heard their grandfather died? Or are they waiting for the official notice?"
"Someone said they took a ride down the shore," I said. "Because it's such a nice day. They'll probably be back at the house later."
"I'm sure," FW said. "Did Mrs. Junior go with them?"
"She had to stay to get the food ready," I said.
"Aren't those hams already cooked?"
"Got me," I said. "But even if, I guess you have to warm them up."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
We were in the dining room admiring a ham.
“That’s hickory-smoked and spiral-cut,” someone behind me said.
There were a lot more people at the house than there were at the church. There was loud talking and laughing. Some cousins were playing cd's and dancing on the back deck. It was a regular party. A bunch of Mitch Junior’s friends had shown up and he was holding court in the den.
“It’s getting pretty vicious in there,” my brother said.
“How so?” I asked.
“Junior’s carrying on about what a prick Mitch was; he’s getting pretty animated.”
“Anything good?” I asked.
“Just the usual,” my brother said. “Nasty drunk. Yelled at Aunt Nan. Smacked Junior around. Never paid any attention. Never played catch. Blah, blah, blah.”
“None of our business,” I said. “Have a sandwich and relax.”
My cousin Tim was motioning to us from the hallway.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Did you hear the doorbell a minute ago?”
“Vaguely.”
“It was a delivery service. They had Uncle Mitch’s ashes. Junior signed for them, then he just dropped the container on the floor by the door and went back into the den. So, I put them in the hall closet.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I was afraid your mother would see them and get upset. Apparently she’s the only here who had any use for Mitch. I didn’t think it would be right for her to notice him just unattended over there, or maybe even trip over him.”
“Well, thanks for that,” I said. “I think I’m going to head out now.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We were sitting on the couch, waiting for a movie to start, when the phone rang. It was my brother.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“Am I supposed to say something sarcastic here?” I asked.
“I’m going to call Mitch Junior. I want Mitch’s ashes.”
“You do,” I said. “And why?”
“You know that putter I use? Do you remember that Mitch gave it to me years ago? It always meant a lot to me. Well, what I’d like to do is take Mitch’s ashes and fill the shaft of my putter with them. Then I could take Mitch out on the course with me all the time. It would be a way to honor his memory.”
“You think that’s fitting?” I asked.
“Better than leaving him in the closet behind some busted up umbrellas.”
“True,” I said. “But there are other considerations.”
“Like what?”
“Well, the way you putt it probably wouldn’t matter, but still, the extra weight might mess up your stroke.”
“It wouldn’t matter,” my brother said. “Anything else?”
“This is kind of touchy,” I said. “But Mitch was a country club guy. He didn’t go near the public courses. Do you think he’d like being dragged around those cow pastures you play?”
“It’s still got to be better than the back of a closet.”
“And, finally,” I said. “If you’re serious about this you’re going to have to drive back down there and pick them up. No way that asshole Junior’s going to go out of his way to ship them.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We were just about to go to bed.
“Who was that on the phone earlier?” FW asked.
“Nobody,” I said. “Just some lunatic.”
“You were on the phone for a while, for talking to just nobody,” FW said.
“I’ve known for a long time,” I said, “that you can’t argue with stupid people and make them smart. And I’ve lately come to the realization that you can’t argue with crazy people and make them sane. Of course, everyone knows that instinctively, and as a matter of course, but it’s different when you’re actually in a specific situation. You’re in it before it’s defined, then it’s defined, then it’s crystal clear, and you wish you weren’t there, but you are, and the thing, the argument, if that’s what it is, has its own life and its own momentum, and the escape route, the graceful exit, isn’t right there, it’s just a little farther out in front of you and you can’t just grab onto it, but you think you are moving toward it, but you’re not, you’re just getting deeper and deeper into the insanity.”
“So who was on the phone?’ FW asked. “Your mother or your brother?”
We were sitting on the couch, waiting for a movie to start.
"Oh," I said. “I almost forgot. My mother called. My Uncle Mitch died today.Or, maybe, yesterday; I'm not sure. Anyway, we have to drive down for a service on Tuesday."
"Is this going to be a big deal?" FW asked. "Wasn't he supposed to be some sort of well-known guy?"
"He was well-known in our family," I said. "All the time I was growing up I had to hear about Mitch. He was a spy in the war. He was at the Nuremberg Trials. He played cards with Harry Truman. He knew Kennedy. He was in Berlin when the wall went up. He'd been everywhere and done everything."
"Was any of it true?"
"Who knows," I said. "I've never come across his name in any of the standard histories of the war, or of the OSS, or the CIA. Who knows?"
"So what about Tuesday?"
"We have to drive down to Mitch Junior’s place. Then we all go to the church. Then it's back to Junior's - they're having a ham. Then home."
"That's going to be a long day,” FW said. “Maybe we can leave right after the service and get home at a decent hour."
"I think they'd be insulted if we skipped the ham," I said. "A ham's a big thing in Virginia. It's almost worth somebody dying, because then you get to have a ham."
"So, your mother told you all this stuff about your uncle when you were growing up? About what a great guy he was?"
"Right," I said. "It was pretty constant."
"How did that go over with your father?"
"At the time, I can't say I would have noticed, one way or the other."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
We were in the church, waiting for the service to start.
"This isn't such a great turnout, for one of the most famous men ever," FW said.
She was right. Mitch's children were there, none with spouses. FW and I. My mother, my brother and his wife. A few other assorted cousins. There were three old men in the last pew. No one knew who they were.
"Apparently, there was a problem with the obituary," I said. "The Post wouldn't print all the stuff Mitch did without independent verification. So they held the notice. It's supposed to appear later this week, if they can get the facts."
"What about Marlene's kids? FW asked. "Surely they heard their grandfather died? Or are they waiting for the official notice?"
"Someone said they took a ride down the shore," I said. "Because it's such a nice day. They'll probably be back at the house later."
"I'm sure," FW said. "Did Mrs. Junior go with them?"
"She had to stay to get the food ready," I said.
"Aren't those hams already cooked?"
"Got me," I said. "But even if, I guess you have to warm them up."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
We were in the dining room admiring a ham.
“That’s hickory-smoked and spiral-cut,” someone behind me said.
There were a lot more people at the house than there were at the church. There was loud talking and laughing. Some cousins were playing cd's and dancing on the back deck. It was a regular party. A bunch of Mitch Junior’s friends had shown up and he was holding court in the den.
“It’s getting pretty vicious in there,” my brother said.
“How so?” I asked.
“Junior’s carrying on about what a prick Mitch was; he’s getting pretty animated.”
“Anything good?” I asked.
“Just the usual,” my brother said. “Nasty drunk. Yelled at Aunt Nan. Smacked Junior around. Never paid any attention. Never played catch. Blah, blah, blah.”
“None of our business,” I said. “Have a sandwich and relax.”
My cousin Tim was motioning to us from the hallway.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Did you hear the doorbell a minute ago?”
“Vaguely.”
“It was a delivery service. They had Uncle Mitch’s ashes. Junior signed for them, then he just dropped the container on the floor by the door and went back into the den. So, I put them in the hall closet.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I was afraid your mother would see them and get upset. Apparently she’s the only here who had any use for Mitch. I didn’t think it would be right for her to notice him just unattended over there, or maybe even trip over him.”
“Well, thanks for that,” I said. “I think I’m going to head out now.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We were sitting on the couch, waiting for a movie to start, when the phone rang. It was my brother.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“Am I supposed to say something sarcastic here?” I asked.
“I’m going to call Mitch Junior. I want Mitch’s ashes.”
“You do,” I said. “And why?”
“You know that putter I use? Do you remember that Mitch gave it to me years ago? It always meant a lot to me. Well, what I’d like to do is take Mitch’s ashes and fill the shaft of my putter with them. Then I could take Mitch out on the course with me all the time. It would be a way to honor his memory.”
“You think that’s fitting?” I asked.
“Better than leaving him in the closet behind some busted up umbrellas.”
“True,” I said. “But there are other considerations.”
“Like what?”
“Well, the way you putt it probably wouldn’t matter, but still, the extra weight might mess up your stroke.”
“It wouldn’t matter,” my brother said. “Anything else?”
“This is kind of touchy,” I said. “But Mitch was a country club guy. He didn’t go near the public courses. Do you think he’d like being dragged around those cow pastures you play?”
“It’s still got to be better than the back of a closet.”
“And, finally,” I said. “If you’re serious about this you’re going to have to drive back down there and pick them up. No way that asshole Junior’s going to go out of his way to ship them.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We were just about to go to bed.
“Who was that on the phone earlier?” FW asked.
“Nobody,” I said. “Just some lunatic.”
“You were on the phone for a while, for talking to just nobody,” FW said.
“I’ve known for a long time,” I said, “that you can’t argue with stupid people and make them smart. And I’ve lately come to the realization that you can’t argue with crazy people and make them sane. Of course, everyone knows that instinctively, and as a matter of course, but it’s different when you’re actually in a specific situation. You’re in it before it’s defined, then it’s defined, then it’s crystal clear, and you wish you weren’t there, but you are, and the thing, the argument, if that’s what it is, has its own life and its own momentum, and the escape route, the graceful exit, isn’t right there, it’s just a little farther out in front of you and you can’t just grab onto it, but you think you are moving toward it, but you’re not, you’re just getting deeper and deeper into the insanity.”
“So who was on the phone?’ FW asked. “Your mother or your brother?”
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