Page 12 of Requiem

Brett 4

Jesus is staring down at me from his cross. He is the face of anguish; the soul of forgiveness. He beckons me to find comfort in his outstretched arms. But I’m having trouble finding any comfort right now as Maggie, my mother, and I sit alone in the middle of the front pew of the church. Behind us, mourners continue to file in until there’s no place left to sit, save for our nearly vacant pew. Still, they stand in the back of the sanctuary rather than disturb the grieving widow and her family, such as it is. I take an uneasy look around, half expecting to see Jeremy coming down the aisle to take his place with us. But I don’t see him, and I’m grateful for that.

My mother isn’t an emotional woman, but anyone who knows her can clearly see she is not herself. She stares up at the crucifix in silence, hands folded primly in the lap of her navy blue church dress. She twirls the plain gold band on her finger absently. This is a faded version of Trudy Corrigan. It’s as if some of her vibrancy has died along with my father.

When the Reverend Richard Quillan takes his place on the dais, a sudden hush falls across the congregants. He clears his throat, opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it. He looks down at his feet, takes a deep breath and looks up again.

“Danny Corrigan wasn’t just my parishioner, he was my friend,” he begins in a choked voice. “Which makes this task both easier and harder. As a clergyman, it is my great honor to celebrate the life of this man. As his friend, my heart is breaking a little more with each and every breath.”

Audible sniffs from the pews.

“Danny and I spent many a night sitting on the deck in his and Trudy’s backyard, sharing a beer and contemplating the great mysteries of the universe. I wanted to know where he stood on the great Camaro vs. Mustang vs. Challenger debate. Mustang, by the way. He wanted to know if God would forgive him for being a Mets fan. No, by the way.”

Chuckles.

“On those nights together, we also tackled more serious topics. I recall one evening in particular, when Danny confided in me his belief that Satan walks among us on this earth in human form. This troubled him.

‘How,’ he wondered, ‘can we possibly fight an enemy who is hiding in plain sight?’ My answer came from Ephesians 6:11 ‘Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil.’

“I told him that we must put on the spiritual armor that God has given us in order to withstand the schemes of the devil. This special armor includes the helmet of Salvation, the breastplate of Righteousness, the belt of Truth, the shoes of the Gospel of Peace, the sword of the Spirit, and the shield of Faith. Daniel Dean Corrigan took this to heart, and he wore his armor proudly. He protected his family with the only weapons strong enough to trump evil: love, hope and faith.”

I realize that my mouth is hanging open, and I’m not sure how long it’s been like that. I have never heard any of this about my father. I had absolute no idea he was so concerned about good and evil. This might as well be the eulogy of a total stranger.

“Trudy,” the Reverend addresses my mother now, “At this point, I would usually recite some homily meant to be a comfort to you. But today, the comforting words come directly from your husband.” He pulls the envelope from the pocket of his vestments and withdraws from it a single sheet of paper.

“I don’t know if Danny had a sense that his death was imminent, but about a year ago, he gave me this sealed envelope and requested that I read it as part of his eulogy.”

What? He was thinking about his funeral …just a year ago?

“I was reluctant to take it,” the Reverend continues, “assuring him that he would have more than enough time to tell you all the things he wanted to tell you. But, he was insistent in that quiet way that he had about him. So, I humored him and stuck it in a drawer. I never imagined that I would be holding it in my hands again so soon.”

This last bit seems to be more to himself than the congregation.

“My dearest, my loveliest, my Trudy. If you are hearing these words, it is because I have left this earth. I would never do so willingly, because, while I believe in the kingdom of Heaven, I do not believe such a place could possibly exist for me without you in it. It is selfish of me to move on before you, leaving you to stand alone against the darkness of this world. But, then, we’ve always known that you are the stronger of us, haven’t we? So, maybe it’s best that you should be the one to see this through.”

Reverend Quillan stops and lowers the hand that’s holding the letter, raising his other hand to swipe at the tears that have formed in his eyes. After a long moment, he resumes, paper shaking in his hand.

“Please, do not rush to meet me, I will wait for you until your days are done. Please don’t stop loving without me. There is enough room in your heart for someone else. Please don’t doubt for a single moment that I am with you, by your side, holding you up, holding you close and holding your heart in mine. You will, for all of eternity, be my dearest, my loveliest, my Trudy.”

To my left, Maggie has wrapped both of her arms around one of mine, pressing her face into my shoulder as she silently sobs. To my right, my mother sits, hands still folded primly in her lap. All around us are the sounds of sniffling, stifled weeping and blowing noses. The sounds of muted grief. The Reverend carefully places the letter back in the envelope, walks forward and hands it to my mother.

“Trudy, I am loathe to disagree with a dead man, but believe me when I say that you will never stand alone against anything in this world. The love of your friends and your family, the prayers of this parish and the divine grace of Our Lord, Jesus Christ, will bolster your armor, Trudy. Your Sword of The Sprit and your Shield of Faith.”

He pauses for a long moment.

“Let us pray.”

****

My childhood home appears to have been turned into a de facto bakery. I’ve never seen so many varieties of cake and pastry in my life. They compete for space on the countertops with the casseroles, fruit baskets and sandwich plates. I hide among the baked goods in the kitchen, trying to avoid the small talk going on in the living and dining rooms.

There must be fifty people crammed into this little house. They linger in the corners, paper plates in hand, speaking in hushed tones. The neighbor ladies have cornered Maggie on the floral couch, grilling her about our wedding plans. My mother has made a job of shuffling the cakes around each time a new one arrives in the hands of a well wisher.

“So, where’s your brother?” comes an unfamiliar voice from behind me.

I turn to see the unfamiliar face that it belongs to. She’s not exactly pretty, so much as handsome. She’s nearly as tall as I am, with snowy white hair that belies a much younger face.

“He was here a few days ago, but he had an unavoidable conflict that kept him away today,” I recite the party line that my mother and I have agreed upon as I try to place her.