One of Esteban’s cousins has been missing for several months and we had to attend his funeral today.
It’s a weird story, actually. He was living in Alaska, with his wife and children, doing something militaristic I guess. He got into a fight with his wife, got on his 4-wheeler and drove off. Never to be seen again.
What is even more bizarre: in 1996, I wrote a short story about a woman in Alaska whose husband goes off to take pictures in the woods and is never seen again.
No body. No vehicle. No evidence that he even existed at all.
It gives me the chills thinking about it.
Now, I had never met this cousin, being that he lived in Alaska, but his parents were at our wedding. The Waterford crystal vase his mother gave me for my bridal shower sits in my bedroom. Still, it was one of the strangest funerals I’d ever been to. In everyone’s mind, still the question remained, even though the overnight temperature in Alaska is negative 20 or lower, is it possible he would show up, unscathed? Where was he? Almost a group mental picture existed, the vision of his body lying broken, underneath the hulk of 4-wheeler, the certainty that maybe twenty years in the future, someone would find the rusted 4-wheeler and maybe a hint of bone or shadow of the man which was once there and his picture would then be trotted out and splayed over the newscasts, with a pat grin from the newscaster with the segue “Well, there’s another mystery that can now be laid to rest… how’s the weather looking, Jim?”
Stupidly, I went without a tissue and sat there crying, surrounded by Esteban’s family who certainly must have thought me insane, since I’ve never met him. I just kept looking at his wife, who was doing spectacularly, considering the circumstances. Whenever I’d see her lift a tissue to her eyes, I’d get even more sad. Then, of course, Esteban noticed that I had big tears rolling down my face and had to try to comfort me, which just made it worse. I can usually hang tough and keep it together until someone offers sympathy… then I lose it. I’m certain it all has to deal with the repressed WASP tendancies I have. Esteban’s family is different… 100% Catholic and very adept at concealing their emotions. We Lutherans have only been at this for six hundred years… we’re neophytes at the suppression. We just go to pieces if someone sees us crying or hears us peeing. Luckily, before we went, I had Esteban pick me up a little pack of those Listerine Oral Care strips, so I popped another of them into my mouth and I was able to compose myself.
Afterwards, we went to the basement of the adjacent parochial school, where we dined upon a potluck provided by the Ladies Auxillary.
There is something inherantly wonderful about food which is served in church basements in bowls with ladies names written on masking tape “Mrs. John Mueller”… “Mrs. Cletus Daanen”. I highly doubt that Martha Stewart could cook a finer meal than the one we had on Chinet plates in the basement, which smelled strangely of industrial cleaner and had the school physical education records along the walls.
I have a stomach full of church lady food right now. It’s a glorious thing. For all the sushi and cassoulets and such I adore, I don’t think I’ve had a finer meal in months.
So, as sad as it was, it was also strangely full of release and a certain sense closure for their family. I’m sure that the question will remain for everyone, though, until the day we know for certain.
