Remembering Mary

The air was crisp and clean as Ally stepped out of the driver's side of the silver Honda Accord she had been driving for over four hours.  She pulled the wool black peacoat around her a little tighter and glanced around where she had parked.  The road she stood on was rocky, the concrete probably poured many decades ago when they extended this cemetery.  For as far as Ally could see, there was grass with the occasional stone protruding from the grass, but she knew with logic that there were plenty of tombstones laying flat.

Familiar faces passed Ally as she stood in place gathering in the realization of where she was and why.  Although the faces were familiar, they had become older, more wrinkled, and gray.  They were her mother’s friends and coworkers.  She couldn’t remember the names immediately, but if she thought long and hard, it would come to her.  That was Marvin , Debbie, and over there was Tom.  Although her mother insisted on calling all adults by their last names, it occurred to Ally that the first name stuck with her many decades later. 

Ally fell in step with the older familiar faces but it was not too long before a woman approached her.  She had gray and black striped hair pulled neat on top of her head and a nose that curved like an arthritic hand.  Her face resembled a prune but Ally could remember a time when it was smooth as a grape.  Was her name Joanne, or was it Joanna or maybe Joan?  

“Allison, right?” Joanne or Joanna or Joan asked.  It occurred to Ally as though she also had a familiar face people might not put their finger on.

“Yes. Joan?”  Ally asked.

“Actually, it’s Josie.  Don’t worry about it.  Your mother was such a wonderful person.  It is such a shame.  I am so sorry for your loss.” 

“Thank you,” Ally said as the woman disappeared into the crowd at the apparent gravesite.  Was ‘thank you’ the correct response.  Should she have said more?  What was there more to say?  Ally agreed that any condolences she faced would receive a simple ‘thank you’ in response. 

As Ally stepped into the crowd, a man stepped beside her, “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“Thank you,” Ally said out of agreement with herself and gave the man a smile before the man retreated.  More familiar graying faces approached Ally giving their condolences and each time, Ally smiled politely and thanked them as they retreated.

“What a mess.”  Ally knew the whispering voice at once and she gave a genuine smile for the first time since she arrived. 

“Millie, you’re here.” Ally turned around to hug her big sister and a tear ran down her cheek.  She had not yet cried at the death of her mother but now that her protector was here, she felt released. 

“Is nobody going to say it? Mom didn’t deserve this.” Although Millie was whispering, Ally looked around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation or watching Millie’s hand gestures. 

“I know, but can we talk about this later?  When we are not at her gravesite with her grieving friends.” 

“You mean the only people she cared about?” 

“Okay, she was not a splendid mother but that doesn’t mean…”

“That doesn’t mean what?” Millie’s voice raised to a normal speaking voice.

“Let’s just get this done with.”  Ally grabbed her sister's icy hand and turned to face the empty grave their mother would spend the rest of her eternity.  Beside the grave, a mound of dirt sat as if it were breathing air for the first time.  And behind the mound of dirt was gray Hearst, where their mother’s body was currently resting. 

The priest stood in front of the crowd as the pallbearers, made of several familiar men, brought the casket out of the Hearst and laid it on top of the stilts assembled to hold the human sized chest.  The service started and was somber and underlined with Christian tradition, just as their mother would have liked it.  

“Would anyone like to say something about our dear sister, Mary?” The priest asked once he completed his prayers.  Ally stared at the ground, not wanting to draw attention to herself and have someone push her to speak about a deceased person, she had little to say about.

The priest pointed toward Ally and her heart stopped before realizing that the person behind her was being called to the front of the crowd to speak by raising a quiet hand to volunteer herself.  The woman was in a black dress with a black pashmina shawl.  Her gray streaked hair hung around her chin and she made her way to the front.  When she looked up, Ally recognized her immediately as Mrs. Harmon who lived across the street from them.  

Mrs. Harmon had always been kind to Ally.  When Ally was younger, Mrs. Harmon always stopped to speak with Ally and Millie, giving them the respect most adults didn’t pay young children.  When Ally got older and her mother didn’t allow her to work, quoting that “she can work when she was older and more responsible,” Mrs. Harmon paid her for mowing her lawn and giving her cookies and lemonade afterwards.  It was Mrs. Harmon’s kindness that Ally realized that there were good adults in the world. 

Mrs. Harmon took a deep breath before opening her mouth, “Mary Andrews was an exceptional woman.  She loved everyone and would take the coat off her back to give it to someone in need.  I remember this one time…”

“She would give the coat off her back to anyone except her own daughters,” Millie said in a hushed voice.  “She locked us out of the house nearly every day, rain or shine.  If we were lucky and it was not too hot or too cold, we could huddle on the porch.  There was no coat given to us in extreme weather, only scowls.” 

Ally closed her eyes.  She remembered spending more time on the unscreened porch than in her own house.  She remembered, in third grade, tripping on a lip in the sidewalk on the way home.  Although her mother was home with the flu she would not let Ally into the house to bandage a scrape, nor would she give Ally a bandaid for the wound. 

When Mrs. Harmon finished her eulogy, another person Ally recognized took her place and spoke to the crowd, “I am Jasper Finagin.  I knew Mary from church.  When my wife, Opal, died four years ago, Mary was there for me.  She would bring over whatever she was making.  A tuna casserole or a cooked chicken, and would sit with me reminiscing on all the church events her and Opal organized…”

Milly spoke up again, “yet, she was too busy to help with the bake sale for the school band or to pick me up from practice.  I guess all her time went to helping Mrs. Finagin and then reminiscing about her times with Mr. Finagin.  What a joke.” 

One after one, the crowd got up in front of the group and spoke about Mary Dennen, Ally’s mother, and again and again they repeated how great of a person she was.  Each time Millie had a rebuttal in Ally’s ear.

As the eulogies subsided and Millie had nothing to add about how horrible their mother was, especially compared to the angel in heaven that the crowd had made her out to be, Ally thought about her childhood.  Was it really as Millie had said?

Sure, their mother had locked them out of the house, but the only times Ally could come up with them were supposed to be with their father after school, always on Fridays, when he had custody.  Ally had left her coat at school and Millie had given her sister her coat for warmth.  

When Ally had scraped her knee, her mother knocked herself out with flu medicine and eventually woke, scooping Ally up, kissing her owie and placing a bandage on it. 

Their mother worked two jobs, one as an administrator in the Emergency Room at the local hospital, and the other at a senior living facility, to make ends meet, which is why she didn’t want her daughters to work if they didn’t need to.  It was not until she retired, ten years ago, long before Opal Finagin’s death, that she learned she enjoyed cooking. 

Ally realized for the first time in her life that it was possible that what her sister was telling her about her mother was why she despised her mother, not that her mother was actually a bad person.  Ally sat with this for a moment before tuning Millie out and listening to Mrs. Pillbody, who was now in front of the crowd talking about Mary Andrews.