G
RANDPA’S DARK OAK casket divided the family at the front of the church poised like two opposing armies. Two sets of pallbearers still as statues stood on each side in chaps with hands resting on pistols—ready to ride, ready to fight. Nobody moved. We all knew what it would lead to if someone did move. Suspicious eyes remained opened as Pastor Moore searched for an ending to his final prayer. He rambled aimlessly and grunted like a man straining in the outhouse. I peeked from underneath my mop of blond hair to catch men watching each other from corners of their eyes. As Pastor Moore read Psalm 23, a heavy darkness shrouded Grandpa’s passing over the Jordan River. This was no celebration of a life well lived, no telling of old stories to make us laugh, no words of wisdom handed down for succeeding generations. Pastor Moore never even mentioned Grandpa’s name for sticking to his canned sermon with highfalutin words most of us didn’t understand. Grandpa wouldn’t have cared. He didn’t like Pastor Moore, anyway, except that he preached what Grandpa told
him. Besides, Grandpa didn’t want any favors. Being preached into heaven would’ve been the last thing he’d want at his funeral. I don’t believe Grandpa would’ve gone through the pearly gates if the preacher talked St. Peter into letting him in. Grandpa said he’d get in on his own, or cut cards for it. The day was dark as the black clothes we wore in the dimly lit house of worship. Menacing clouds filled the sky but there was no smell of rain in the air—just dry, dusty wind choking throats and blurring eyes. There’d be no dinner on the ground afterwards and no flowers planted on Grandpa’s grave this day of reckoning. I stood by Grandpa’s casket wondering, What’s fixin’ to happen? Grandpa finished his race—no more debts to settle, no more trouble to stir. But he hoped the feud he’d created between his twin sons, Jacob and Esau, would continue long after he was gone. I could almost hear him laughing. But there was no laughing that day. Tension filled the church house like a bronc about to be ridden for the first time. All hell could break loose any second. I couldn’t resist. I peered over into the ornately carved oak box with shiny brass handles.
