FALLING STARS
Chapter Thirty-Two
August 9, 1970
Rose sat in the front pew of the church, her
gaze fixed on the coffin in front of the altar. She took little notice of those
siting around her--her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, friends
and colleagues of Jack’s. He had been well-liked, well-respected. Louise sat in
the pew behind her. Rose had called to tell her of Jack’s death the day after
it had happened, and she had immediately flown out from Cedar Rapids to
Philadelphia. She had been very sympathetic toward Rose, understanding what she
was going through, since her own husband had died seven years earlier.
Rose looked up for a moment, looking around
the church. Cal and Nathan Hockley were there, sitting on the other side. It
was amazing, she thought, how Cal and Jack had grown to be friends after years
of enmity. Nathan, of course, had not wanted to miss the funeral of his old art
teacher, and had driven down from New York City.
Rose looked behind her, wondering if Andrew
would be there. She had left a message with his secretary that his father had
died, but Andrew had still not contacted her. She wondered if he had decided to
completely cut his ties with the family, as none of his siblings had heard from
him either.
She turned her attention to the front as the
minister began to speak. She had been allowed to see Jack one last time before
he had been taken to the undertaker, to say good-bye. She had almost not
recognized him, lying there so quiet and still. Even after his heart had gotten
so weak that he had trouble getting around, there had always been an underlying
energy, one that was absent now. What was left was only the shell; the essence
of what Jack had been was gone. She had stayed only a few minutes before she
knew that it was time to leave. It hadn’t been Jack lying there, only his body.
His soul, that part of him that had made him who he was, had gone on ahead, and
she somehow knew that when her turn came, he would be waiting for her.
She looked at the coffin in front of her. She
had insisted upon a closed casket funeral, as she knew Jack had wanted. He
hadn’t wanted people viewing him after he was gone, seeing what remained of his
living form. He wanted them to remember him as he had been, full of life.
Rose stared straight ahead, dry-eyed. The
five of her children that were present all wept for their father, but Rose
could not. She had cried when she had gone to say good-bye to him, but now she
seemed to be beyond tears. She missed him with an intensity she could not
explain to anyone. He had been more than just her husband, more than friend and
lover. He had been her soulmate, and it felt as though a part of herself had
died with him.
Near the end of the eulogy, Rose heard the
door open at the back of the sanctuary, and turned briefly to see who it was.
Andrew slipped in the door and sat in the
back pew alone. He was dressed in civilian garb for a change, a plain black
suit. Rose was glad that he had come, glad that he had chosen to acknowledge
his father, even now, when he was gone.
At the end of the service, Rose joined
Gregory and Emily for the short drive to the cemetery. She looked for Andrew,
but he had slipped away before anyone could speak to him.
When they arrived at the cemetery, the
everyone gathered around the burial site. It was in the north section of the
cemetery, next to where Adam had been buried twenty-six years earlier. Thirteen
years before, when Jack had retired, they had purchased one burial plot for
both of them. The headstone was already there; Rose had paid extra to have it
made in time for the funeral. It read:
Jack Dawson
1892 - 1970
Beloved Husband and Father
Below that were the words:
Rose Dawson
1895 -
It was disconcerting, Rose thought dully, to
see her own name on a headstone when she was still alive. She didn’t know how
long it would be before she, too, took her place beneath that headstone.
She looked up as the pallbearers gathered
around the hearse--Gregory, Libby, Nancy, Heidi, and Harry. She had asked the
five of them to do this, knowing that they would want to perform this one last
service for their father, and had asked Gregory to find the sixth pallbearer,
since she doubted that Andrew would want to be a part of it. Nathan Hockley had
assured her that if Andrew did not show up, he would take his place, a gesture
of respect for the man who had first taught him art, who had set him on his way
to a career as a successful comic book artist.
Rose saw the six of them go to pick up the
coffin, and was surprised when a black-clad man came up and spoke to them
quietly, then took Nathan’s place. Andrew. He had decided to take part in his
father’s funeral after all.
The crowd watched as the six Dawson children
carried their father’s coffin toward the open grave. All were sorrowful, but
none more than Andrew, whose grief-ravaged face showed how much he regretted
cutting his ties with his family these past three years. He had always meant to
mend bridges with his father, apologize for the way he had treated him, but he
had never found the time to do so, and now it was too late.
They carried the coffin to the grave, then
stood back as the minister said a few words over it. Rose and her grandchildren
came to stand beside them as the coffin was lowered into the ground. At the
last, Rose picked up a handful of dirt, squeezing her fist around it, filling
it with her love, before dropping it with a dull thud on the coffin below. The
others followed suit, saying good-bye to the man who had been father and
grandfather to them.
Afterwards, Rose walked quietly to the
cemetery gates, wanting to be alone for a few minutes. Gregory and Emily would
catch up with her. She stood silently, looking down at two other graves, those
of her father and mother, wishing suddenly that Ruth was still alive. Though
they hadn’t gotten along well when Rose was a child, Ruth had been loving and
supportive in later years, giving Rose a shoulder to cry on when Adam had died.
Ruth would have understood what it was like to lose a husband; she had outlived
two of them. Though Rose knew other women who had been widowed, her daughter
Libby among them, it wasn’t the same talking to them as it would have been
talking to Ruth. The others could not give her the same level of understanding
as her mother would have.
She looked up when she heard low voices a few
yards away. Andrew and Harry were walking along the path, talking quietly.
Harry was looking at his brother warily, and Rose tensed, fearing that the two
would fight again. Andrew spoke to his brother in a quiet, pleading tone,
speaking words that Rose could not make out, looking at his younger brother. At
last, Harry turned to Andrew, and slowly held out his hand. The brothers shook
hands, and then, after a moment, quietly embraced.
Rose’s eyes filled with tears. She mourned
for Jack, missed him terribly, but his death had brought their sons together,
and for that she was grateful.