August 17, 1962
The day of Tom Bukater’s funeral dawned humid and overcast, rain threatening. To Rose, who had been lost in a fog of grief since the night of her debut, it seemed fitting.
The household had remained somber for the past week. In place of the sound of folk music on Rose’s record player—or rock and roll, when her mother wasn’t home—there was silence. The radio was seldom turned on, and the TV sat unused and blank except for when the twins had decided to watch it one evening. Then they had quarreled over what to watch, ending with Julie running to their mother in tears and Lucy kicking the wall so hard she had left a black mark.
Rose had been unable to work on her painting, staring at it for a long time before tossing her paintbrush aside in frustration. Even Jack had given up on trying to draw what he had seen that night, setting his art supplies aside and wishing there was something he could do to help.
Cal had tried to draw Rose out, insisting on taking her out several times in spite of her protests that she just wanted to be left alone, but had brought her home in embarrassment two days earlier after she had broken down crying at a movie he had taken her to—a comedy—and had left as quickly as possible, promising to come to the funeral. She hadn’t heard from him since.
Tom DeWitt-Bukater had returned home the afternoon before. Ruth had contacted him the day after his father’s death, but it had taken several days for him to be granted leave, and longer still to travel from Okinawa, where he was stationed, back to Philadelphia.
Tom wasn’t sure what to make of Jack at first—his parents had written to him about the boy his father had taken in, but they had written different things, his father thinking well of him in spite of Jack’s initial discomfort with the Bukaters and his new home, while his mother had indicated that she wasn’t happy with the child her husband had taken in and, though she knew he was the son of an old friend, wished he had been left in Wisconsin with his relatives.
Jack himself had done a double take when he had met Tom, Jr. for the first time—the young man bore a very strong resemblance to his father, aside from being a few inches taller and a quarter century younger. He had stared at his foster brother as though he was seeing a ghost. Rose and her sisters, however, had had no such qualms, launching themselves at their brother so hard they had knocked his glasses askew and nearly knocked him off his feet.
Later, Tom had talked to his mother and sisters about his father’s death, upset but keeping his emotions under tight control, smoking cigarette after cigarette until his mother had taken them away from him. Later still, he had talked to Jack, borrowing a cigarette from his foster brother, and had made up his own mind about the boy who had unwittingly become a source of tension between his parents in the last ten months of his father’s life.
*****
Tom Bukater’s funeral was scheduled for ten o’clock at the Presbyterian church he had gone to since childhood. The sanctuary was large, but the funeral was still expected to be standing room only. Bukater had been well-liked by many people during his lifetime.
The DeWitt-Bukaters arrived early, though there were already a number of people present. They walked silently to the front of the church, where the casket, the upper half open to reveal Tom’s face, was situated. It was surrounded by flowers, some brought earlier, some left by mourners who had already filed past to pay their respects.
Rose stared at her father, wiping her eyes as they filled with tears. He almost looked like he was sleeping—but not quite. His face was too waxy-looking, too still to merely be asleep. Whatever had made him what he was had gone, leaving behind only the shell.
Beside her, Julie gave a whimper of distress at the sight, then started crying. A moment later, she turned and ran from the church, Lucy following. Ruth started to go after them, then changed her mind, knowing they would be back before the service started.
A few minutes later, they returned, Julie leaning against her twin. Cal was following them, looking very uncomfortable. While Ruth took the twins aside to try to console them, Rose went to Cal, stopping a few feet from him, neither of them sure what to say.
"Rose…Sweetpea…" Cal trailed off, tugging at his collar nervously. "I…uh…"
Rose wiped her eyes again and tried to hold her voice steady. "I…I wasn’t sure you would come. After what happened on Thursday…"
"I…well, I promised I’d be here, didn’t I?"
"Yes, but…"
"Rose…uh…did you want me to sit with you during the funeral? I will if you want…"
Rose thought about it for a moment, realizing then that she really didn’t want him beside her. It was hard enough to deal with her father’s death without Cal’s nervous, half-hearted attempts to comfort her. Right now, she only wanted to be with her family.
"No, Cal." Her voice broke. She took a moment to compose herself, then went on. "I know it…the funeral and everything…makes you uncomfortable. You…you should sit with everyone else. I…I think it’ll be easier that way."
"Are you sure, Sweetpea? I don’t mind…" Involuntarily, his eyes went to Jack, who still stood near the casket, looking from his foster father to Rose and back again. Cal frowned slightly, wondering if Rose was sending him to sit with everyone else because she preferred to be with Jack.
"I’m sure, Cal." Rose saw her mother watching her out of the corner of her eye. "I…think I need to go sit down now. The funeral will be starting in a few minutes…"
Before he could say anything else, she hurried toward the front pew where her mother and sisters were sitting, hoping to avoid talking to him any further. She was relieved when she looked back and saw him moving toward a pew a few rows back.
Jack finally left the casket and moved toward the DeWitt-Bukaters, but as he was about to sit beside Rose, Ruth stopped him.
"The front row is only for family," she told him. "Why don’t you go sit with Cal?"
Jack stared at her in shock. He knew that Ruth DeWitt-Bukater had never been fond of him, but he had never thought she would send him away from the family at his foster father’s funeral. He saw Rose shake her head and turn pleading, tear-filled eyes to her mother, but it was Tom, Jr. who came to his defense.
"Let him stay, Mom."
Ruth turned to her son in consternation, but before she could say anything, he went on.
"Dad considered him to be a part of the family. At least, that’s what it seemed like in the letters he sent me. Since this is Dad’s funeral, I think we should respect his wishes and let Jack sit with us."
"Tom, I really don’t think…"
"Mom, everyone knows Dad took him in and treated him like he was his own son. No one will think it’s strange that he’s with us." Tom was well-aware of his mother’s concern for propriety and what others thought of them.
"Sit down, Jack," Rose urged, pulling him down beside her.
Jack looked at Ruth nervously, seeing her lips tighten angrily, but when a look around the now-full church convinced her that there really wasn’t any other place for him to go, she nodded her assent, though her face remained unhappy.
The funeral service began a few minutes later. The assembled mourners listened quietly as the pastor spoke of Tom Bukater’s life and accomplishments and read some Bible verses.
Rose listened to the pastor’s words, but felt no comfort. All she could think about was the fact that her father, lying still, cold, and silent at the front of the church, would never speak to her again, never encourage her, never comfort her when she was upset. He would never again mediate between her and her mother when they disagreed. He wouldn’t be there to see her graduate from high school, to help her select a college, to walk her down the aisle when she married. He would never celebrate another anniversary with the mother, or dance with the twins at their debuts.
Rose looked at Jack gratefully when he put a comforting arm around her, though she could almost feel Cal’s angry gaze burning into them from a few pews back. Still, she had more important things on her mind than whether Cal was angry with her for accepting comfort from Jack when she would not accept it from him.
Her tears began anew when she recalled something. Looking at her father through eyes blurred by tears, she remembered that today was his birthday. If he had lived, he would have been forty-seven years old. There would have been a party, probably with important members of society. Later, he would have laughed, as he always had, about the fuss and accepted the gifts his children brought him.
There would be no party tonight, or ever again. The still life she had painted for him earlier in the summer would remain in her closet, wrapped in bright paper. Today there was only the funeral and burial, and then later, the wake and the reading of the will. In a short time, the church service would end and they would go to the cemetery. Tom Bukater would be placed in the ground, his final resting place marked only by a headstone, a headstone that gave only the most basic details of his life and what he had meant to his family…and so many other people, too.