A Man Named Dave

shoulders.
    “Yeah,” I said, “I understand now. I really do.” Wiping away my tears, I said, “I appreciate everything you and everyone else did for him. At least” – I stopped to look at the small group of staff – “at least he wasn’t alone. For that I’m grateful. I truly am. Thank you. Thank you all.”
    Shaking everyone’s hand, I saved my appreciation for Steve last. All I could do was nod my head, up and down. “It’s all right, man, I understand,” he said before embracing me. Reaching behind to my back pocket, I pulled out a faded piece of black leather. “It’s my father’s badge,” I announced triumphantly.
    “He wanted you to have it. He told me so,” Steve said, taking my hand.
    “It’s the only thing he had that was his … that no one could take away.” I paused to collect myself. Without warning I felt an overwhelming urge to crawl into bed, hide from everything and everyone, and sleep forever. “One day I’m gonna make my dad proud,” I adamantly stated. “I will!”
    “David,” Steve said, shaking his head, “not to worry. You already have. He told me himself. He’s proud of you. He told me you made it … that you made it out of whatever situation you were in.
    “Your father’s ‘up there’ right now. He can see you.” Steve stopped for a moment of introspection. “Maybe he was never physically with you. But up there, he’ll be with you … always.”
     
    Four days later, on a foggy Monday morning, I parked Mr Turnbough’s car in front of the same Catholic church Ron, Stan, and I had briefly attended with our aunt years ago as preschoolers. Upon entering, I thought I was late – the services were apparently under way. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, in my olive green air force fatigues, I stepped with Alice lightly yet quickly down the left side of the aisle before sliding into one of the front pews.
    While praying on my knees, I couldn’t believe that I had dishonored my father by being late for his service. After thanking God for relieving Father’s pain, I concentrated on the service. In an odd sense, I was excited to hear the good things others would say about Father. Maybe, I thought, I could learn something about him. I had always wondered about my parents’ pasts, their ideas, their outlooks for the future, how they met, fell in love, why things turned sour, how as a couple they seemed to have it all but lost everything. I especially wondered about the love that I felt they had at one time for each other. But instead the priest began to hastily run down a list of announcements. “This Wednesday evening’s sermon will be canceled. But the potluck dinner will still be served at the regular time…” I turned to Alice in disgust.
    It was then that I noticed behind the pulpit there were no bouquets, wreaths, or even a casket for Father. “Look.” I elbowed Alice.
    Mrs Turnbough leaned over and whispered, “Your mother said your father’s wishes were to be cremated.”
    “No way!” I erupted. “He was a fireman! Get it, a firefighter! They’re paranoid of getting burned … No!” I said, trying to restrain my fury, “This is wrong. Totally wrong. Dad wouldn’t want this!”
    “I know,” Alice gently replied, “but it’s too late. She already…”
    Not wanting to hear my father’s fate, I turned away and caught a hateful glance from Mother, who sat directly across the aisle from Alice and me. By her look she seemed outraged that I was in the same building with her and her precious children, who for the most part appeared to be bored at the whole affair. My concentration returned to the priest, who cleared his throat before chanting his final blessing, “… of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. May the Lord be with you.”
    “And also with you,” the congregation answered.
    “Go in peace,” the priest concluded.
    A surge of anger took over me. How could I have screwed up and missed Father’s service? On my knees I cursed myself for somehow misunderstanding the time of the funeral. Alice leaned over, saying, “I could swear that your mother said nine o’clock.” I nodded, checking my watch, which read a few minutes after the hour.
    Turning from the crowd, the priest bowed before stepping away from the podium. But by the sudden change in his face, the priest must have looked at Mother. Without breaking stride, he returned to his pulpit and unfolded a paper. “Pardon me,” he said, “the church wishes to recognize the passing of Stephen Pelzer, who now rests in the hands of our Heavenly