Uncle Clyde is Dead

Uncle Clyde was dead and the repast was packed full of mourners who acted like they missed him, who piled their plates with greens and macaroni and cheese and fried chicken wings, potato salad, yams, baked beans, everything heavy and sweet and meant to fill the holes in people. They were laughing and talking, chewing and swallowing grief like it was Sunday dinner. I stood there in my black dress even though black was not my color. It never was. It made me look like I was pretending to be respectful, like I was part of something I had already been pushed out of.

This was the first funeral I had been invited to since I stopped pretending to be saved. Since I left Mississippi and the Lord both behind. Mama and Auntie were together as usual, whispering like they had secrets only they could keep. Cousin Rob and Cousin Louis were sitting near the window eating like it was their job. They had gotten bigger, both of them, and not just in size. Bigger in the way people get when they never leave. I walked past them slow, smiling like I belonged, trying to remember which one of them used to make me laugh before all the ugly things settled in.

They called me pretty. That word stunk the air. Mama and Auntie turned toward me, both of them lighting up like my face was a revelation. They came running, arms open, all teeth and perfume and church hugs, saying “Lord, Ida, you so pretty now, look at you.” They hugged me like I hadn’t been gone, like they hadn’t prayed over me when they found out I kissed a girl. They said they were proud of me, that family was family, that they missed me. They said all of it like a lie told enough times starts to sound like love.

What was there to mourn? Who was there to feel bad for? Uncle Clyde, who begged all the girls in the family to sit in his lap? Clyde, who everyone called God-fearing like that word could clean a soul? They all said he was a good man. He worked hard, he sang in the choir, he bought candy for the kids. That was the story. But I remember Darlene, sweet Darlene, who used to laugh at everything until he started being touchy and weird with her. She was sixteen when she hung herself with a belt in her bedroom. I knew something was wrong before she did it. I could see it in how she stilted when Clyde talked to her. How she’d pull her sleeves down when he walked by. 

Darlene grew over the summer, and the family started calling her fast just because she wore tank tops in the heat. I remember one night sleeping over at Uncle Clyde’s house, watching how his eyes lingered on her when she walked into the kitchen for a glass of water. I told Mama about it. She didn’t even look up, just said, “Baby, that’s ’cause Darlene don’t be covering up,” like cloth could fix the way a man sees a girl. I should’ve known then what it meant when adults blamed the child for the way a grown man watched her breathe.

They said Darlene was troubled. Said she was weak. Said she didn’t have the Lord in her heart. But they never said what broke her. They never said who did it. They didn’t even invite me to her funeral. Said they forgot. But I knew it was because I didn’t fit their picture of grief. You can’t mourn the right way when you’re the wrong kind of woman.

Now Clyde was gone and the church was full, people crying and laughing like they couldn’t decide which one was more holy.

Mama came over after the service, plate balanced in her hand, eyes soft but mouth sharp. “You still living that lifestyle?” she asked. I smiled and said, “You mean being happy?” She frowned. Said I always had to talk smart. Said she was just worried about my soul. I told her it was fine. She said she prays for me every night. I told her she could stop, that I was doing alright without all that praying. She didn’t believe me. Nobody here ever does.

I stepped outside when I couldn’t breathe anymore. The air was heavy with the musty heat of summer. The parking lot was half full of people laughing like this was a reunion instead of a funeral. That’s how it always goes down here. Cry inside, gossip outside. Somebody said they were gonna miss Clyde. Somebody else said he was one of the good ones. I lit a cigarette, just to have something to do with my hands.

Smoke curled up in the air. I thought about Darlene again. Thought about Mama praying for a man who didn’t deserve it and praying against a daughter who just wanted to live. Thought about how easy it is to forgive what’s familiar and how hard it is to love what’s true.

Mama and Auntie said he was saved, he was in a better place, Darlene would be burning since she took her life and that’s against the book, an abominable sin, my morals were different now ever since I kissed that girl. Mama and Auntie and Cousin Rob and Cousin Louis kept stuck to it like they were chewing the same old piece of gospel-flavored gum, working it till the taste was gone but refusing to spit it out. 

Uncle Clyde was dead and I was still here. Standing outside the church, watching the smoke fade into the heat. I walked to my car, slipped out of the dress I never looked good in, and pulled on a tank top and jeans. Didn’t know where I was headed, but anywhere had to be better than staying for dessert.