After Grampa died and his service was
complete, his casket stacked in storage, the family convened at Gramma’s house
for supper, and the wake. There was loads of food, of course; where it all came
from is beyond me. Both my grandmothers were active in the Catholic Woman’s
League, so I suppose the CWL pitched in to feed 50ish people. Beer and wine
were served, liberally. It was 1980, and my relatives drank more than now, I
believe. Not me, I was 15. Had I drank by then? What do you think? I’m from
Northern Ontario. Most teens I knew had drank a beer, by then. But publicly,
under the gaze of my relatives, not a chance. Not at first, anyway.
Someone suggested for us to play cards,
poker, if I remember correctly. I ask you, who plays poker at a wake? A group
collected around the kitchen table, and Uncle Frank asked Keith and I if we
wanted to play. I begged off, telling Uncle Frank that I didn’t have a clue how
to play poker, but Uncle Frank insisted, telling us that he'd “help.” That he'd
explain the game to us. So, we agreed. We wanted to hang out with the adults,
to finally graduate from the kids’ table. We sat at the foot of the table, at
Gramma’s end by the kitchen, Uncle Frank between us. Keith held the cards. I
leaned in to see them. I took care of the money.
Uncle Frank was the one actually playing.
Obviously. He’d ask us what we thought, how many cards we should discard, and
so on. But when it came time to actually discard, it was Uncle Frank who
pointed out which cards to keep, and more importantly, what to bet, and when to
fold.
The game was small stakes, nickels, dimes,
the pot rarely rising above two bucks. Keith and I were up; I doubt we were the
big winners, hand by hand, or even throughout. But we were definitely up, the
small stack of coins before us steadily growing. We were thrilled.
Someone suggested that Keith and I were
old enough to have a beer with the family. I looked up at my Dad, up at the
head of the table. He nodded, so I had one. Not used to drinking, I sipped at
it. It rose to my head fairly quickly, so I didn’t drink much, or that quickly.
Not so others around the table. It was a funeral, after all. For some, their
father had just been “buried.” Emotional states were fragile at best.
“Keith and I” won yet another hand. We
whooped it up, I gathered in the next haul, and we laughed.
And then it happened. We were accused of
cheating. Cheating?! How could we be cheating? We didn’t have a fucking clue
what we were doing. Uncle Frank was running the show. But Keith held the cards,
and dealt them when our turn came. And I collected the money.
Keith and I were dumbfounded. Uncle Frank
told everyone to calm down. But they didn’t. Tension rose. Voices rose. And our
accuser advanced on us. Uncle Frank rose up and stood before Keith and I, but
come on, Uncle Frank was about 80, and not a big man by anyone’s imagination. A
slight breeze might have floored him. My father shouldered his way between us
and our accuser. They were nose to nose. Shoving began. Bodies entered the
fray.
But before fists flew, the women were
rushing into the room, and my grandmother was between the combatants, holding
them apart at arm’s length. Giving them hell, telling them to grow up and
behave themselves. And they regressed into little boys, staring at their feet.
Eventually separated.
There were muted conversations, much
milling about, more than a few tears welled up and the sobbing was renewed,
here and there, then everywhere. The gathering began to break apart after that.
My mother rushed us into our coats. I didn’t
want to go. I’d been given my first family beer and had been having a good time
up till then, and I didn’t want to be separated from Keith, whom I’d begun to
see less and less of. I was also drunk. And I think my mother knew that.
Herded into the car, she drove us back to
Nanny’s. She set me aside, consoled me. I wanted to push her away. I was an
adult, now, for Christ’s sake!
In the quiet of Nanny’s house, I began to
cry, then to sob uncontrollably for the first time that day.
