The Pilot’s Locked and So Is the Casket

The Pilot’s Locked and So Is the Casket

I truly believe that only my family could turn a funeral into a tactical operation involving oven mitts, a Maltese in a tuxedo, and the only car key to a Honda Pilot locked in with the body.

It all started the night before the service. We were eight hours from home at the family church, Crooked Creek Baptist, red carpet and all, the kind that’s so old it feels sacred and sticky at the same time. The visitation was winding down, and folks were drifting out into the parking lot, swapping casseroles and stories about how Mama used to run the day care like it was Fort Knox.

Inside, my aunt Leah was standing next to the casket, holding back full-body sobs and clutching her purse like it might float away. She’s a nurse practitioner and smart as a whip, don’t get me wrong, but she’s the kind of woman who carries sutures, a can of SpaghettiOs, and a YooHoo all in the same bag. You never know what’s in there. One time I saw a stethoscope tangled up with a pack of gum and a box of tampons from the early 2000s.

My other aunt, Sarah, stood beside her like a general at a battlefield. She used to run a hospital, but she’s the type that labels her Q-Tips and wipes her Lysol can before she puts it away. I love her to death, but she sneezes just from looking at a petting zoo.

And that’s when Cuddles made his entrance.

Cuddles was Mama’s dog, sort of. He was technically Aunt Leah’s, or maybe all of theirs, but he lived with Mama so long that he thought he was hers. A 17-year-old Maltese who hated everyone but Mama and hotdogs. Leah had dressed him in a tuxedo for the occasion, don’t ask me why, but she stopped at multiple stores looking for a dog tuxedo on our way to Alabama, and insisted he come in the church to “tell Mama goodbye.”

I should’ve known it was going to go sideways when she set her purse on top of the casket to lift Cuddles up, so I sat down on the front pew to watch the developments.

He took one look inside, saw Mama lying there, and jumped.

Straight into the casket.

Aunt Leah screamed. Aunt Sarah sneezed. And the purse, Lord help us, the purse flipped over and dumped its guts into the casket right behind him.

The flashlight, a YooHoo, a bag of trail mix, sutures, fingernail clippers, fingernails, a travel Bible, a chocolate Santa, and, most importantly, the only key fob to Aunt Sarah’s Honda Pilot, the one we all rode in from Memphis to Alabama.

None of them said it out loud. Nobody had to. The look Aunt Sarah gave Aunt Leah said everything.

That key was going in the ground.

Aunt Sarah didn’t say a word. She just looked at Aunt Leah like she was the reason for everything wrong in the world, including humidity and gas prices, which were predicted to go up over the weekend. Then she pinched the bridge of her nose, turned on her heel, and disappeared into the church kitchen like she was going to perform an emergency appendectomy.

Meanwhile, Aunt Leah was circling the casket like she might try to dive in after the dog herself.

“He’s under her feet,” she whispered, panicked, like it was a hostage situation. “He crawled down to the end and now I think he’s stuck.”

“I told y’all not to bring that dog in here,” Aunt Sarah said when she came back, snapping on a pair of latex gloves like she was about to start surgery. “And I told you not to let him wear a tuxedo.”

“Well he had to look nice,” Aunt Leah sniffed, wiping her eyes with a balled-up Kleenex that was already wet on both ends. “He had to say goodbye.”

“Y’all are going to be saying goodbye to me if you don’t get that dog out of the casket,” Aunt Sarah said, already halfway back inside the sanctuary. “Block the doors,” she said like a general preparing for battle.

So that’s what I did. I stood lookout while Aunt Sarah got down on one knee in front of Mama’s casket like she was about to propose.

She clicked on the tiny flashlight from her purse and held it between her teeth. I swear it looked like she was going spelunking. One gloved hand went in, then the other, and pretty soon, she was elbow-deep in satin and grief.

“I see the YooHoo,” she muttered.

“You are not drinking that,” Aunt Leah warned.

“I’m not drinking anything, I’m looking for the you know what!”

Aunt Leah flinched. “Do you see my necklace?”

Aunt Sarah paused. “Why in the hell would you put a necklace in a purse?”

“I don’t know! But it has a picture of Mama and Daddy in it, and I need that”

Aunt Sarah turned her head slightly. “More than what I’m looking for?”

“You know what I mean!”

At this point, Cuddles growled from somewhere down by Mama’s ankles. Aunt Sarah froze.

“He’s in her lap now,” she said.

“He always loved to curl up in Mama’s lap,” Aunt Leah offered, teary again. “Poor thing. He doesn’t understand.”

“Leah! I DO NOT CARE what this dog loves,” Aunt Sarah hissed. “I care about getting him out of this casket, and you had better not ever bring this dog to another funeral.”

She shifted. We all heard a faint metallic clink.

“I think I found it!” she said. “And next time I’m bringing both of them.

“You did?” Aunt Leah gasped. “Thank God!”

“Don’t thank Him yet,” Aunt Sarah grunted. “I think it’s under her thigh.”

“Oh don’t lift her!” Aunt Leah said.

“You wanna get buried in this church parking lot? Because if I get stuck in this casket, that’s what’s gonna happen.”

Another sneeze. Another shift. A can of SpaghettiOs rolled out onto the carpet like it was making its escape.

And then, like Moses parting the Red Sea, Aunt Sarah emerged, hair frazzled, glove ripped, and holding the key fob up in the air like she’d just pulled Excalibur from a stone.

Just as Aunt Sarah pulled herself back upright, the double doors at the back of the sanctuary creaked open. I turned to see Brother Harold’s wife poking her head in, followed by a long line of Baptists in windbreakers and floral blouses, all holding their funeral voices and Pyrex dishes.

Aunt Sarah shoved the key fob into her purse like it was stolen.

Then my mom, who had been keeping an eye on the casserole table, appeared in the doorway, holding a green bean bundle and looking like she’d seen the ghost of every family member that ever lived.

“They’re comin’ in,” she whispered.

Aunt Leah was already scooping Cuddles out of the casket like a sack of potatoes. He gave a weak growl but didn’t put up much of a fight. Probably winded from all the drama. His bowtie had come undone, and he looked like a drunk groomsman at a rural wedding.

The three of them moved like a unit Aunt Leah clutching the dog, Aunt Sarah smoothing her jacket with SpaghettiOs sauce on the sleeve, and my mom balancing the casserole like it was communion. I held the side door for them like a bodyguard and followed behind as they hustled down the red shag aisle, past Mama’s favorite pew, past the felt-board Jesus still hanging by one Velcro hand in the Sunday School room.

Outside, Uncle Wilson was leaning against the Pilot, sipping from a Sonic cup like nothing had happened. He gave us a little wave.

Aunt Sarah didn’t even stop. She dropped the key fob into his hand like a nurse handing off a surgical instrument.

“You’re driving,” she said, eyes narrowed.

He blinked. “Everything okay?”

“Nobody died,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat.

“Well,” my Mom said softly, “except Mama.”

Aunt Leah buckled the dog in. I swear she did. Cuddles looked out the window like he was done with all of us.

I stood there for a second, watching them settle into the Pilot like it was just a regular day and not the single weirdest funeral in Crooked Creek history.

Aunt Leah cracked open a warm YooHoo from her purse and took a sip with both hands.

“Amen to that,” she said.