Dylan wrote this song about a murder case that was suspect in many ways. It strikes a cord with the events that I am beginning to describe to you all. In Dylan’s song, Carter and a man named John Artis had been charged with a triple murder at the Lafayette Grill in Paterson, New Jersey in 1966. The following year Carter and Artis were found guilty of the murders. In the years that followed, a substantial amount of controversy emerged over the case, ranging from allegations of faulty evidence and questionable eyewitness testimony.

 

You know that old saying, “the truth will set you free?” Well apparently no one running in this current circle abides by that unwritten rule, and so I was forced to seek out the truth from the depths of every place I could think of.

My friend made a quick stop at Kim’s so I could  gather the paperwork that had been accumulated thus far; a will, police report and random photographs that had been recovered from the safe deposit box. I tucked the file folder under my coat and hurried back to the car and my friend. We had to make one last stop before her house, the liquor store. There was no way I was going to spend the evening of my father’s viewing pouring over the details of his death without pouring myself a glass of wine, or five. Being the dry red kind of person I am today, it is almost horrifying to admit that at that point in my life I thought that good wine was Riesling, made in New York; it almost hurt to type that. My friend however was a gluten for Rose and so we had no other alternative than to purchase 2 bottles of wine, what a damn shame.

My friends house was serene, located on a dead end street right on Lake Ontario. Even in the snow and blistering cold, the view was nothing short of exquisite. I took a brief moment to take it all in before heading toward the door.

We set up our command station at her large glass coffee table in the living room so we could sit on the floor and stretch our legs out while we worked. We set the bottles of wine on the table, one next to each glass. No need to continue to get up to refill,  after all, this was all about be efficient.

I broke out the police report first. I had read over it at a very emotional time and I am not sure I fully comprehended each detail. I had to know who the players were before I could start looking for additional information. Listed on the police report were three names; one being McCrabben, another that I didn’t recognize but the police report made it seem as if she was just a friend of McCrabbens, wrong place wrong time. The third name is what struck me as interesting; Amy Rees. Why did that sound so familiar? I opened the laptop and logged into my Facebook account. My father was too private to have ever held a social media account, I could hear his taunting as my fingers stroked the keys. “Why the hell would you want to check in an tell the world where you are? Who would care how you are feeling at every moment or what you are watching on television? This seems like crap for old lonely people who wish the world to feel pity for them. Suck it up kid, no one needs to know your every move.” I laughed under my breath as I thought about his reaction. Nonetheless, not everyone in his life shared the same rational ideas and Ms. Amy Rees had  not one, but two separate Facebook accounts. One was clearly personal, and the other promoted some kind of event business she had started. Something to do with being on the “A List” in Rochester New York, give me a fucking break. That was comparable to having a reserved table at Denny’s. I sipped my wine while trolling through her personal Facebook page, what was the connection? Finally I landed on a photo of her and my father at what appeared to be an Amerk’s game. It was dated December 2008, so only one month before he passed, maybe less. This seemed odd because I was currently battling some bitch who claimed that her and my father were so in love, enough to cut her in on his will. Why would he then be at an Amerk’s game with another woman? I showed my friend what I had come across and she led me further into the page to discover who Amy was “friends” with on Facebook. Six degrees of separation landed us on the page that displayed all of Amy’s current cyber friends, and recently added was none other than Kim McCrabben. What the fuck?

I looked back at the police report to gain a better understanding of what appeared to be a twisted love triangle. Clearly I had not been in my right mind when reading this the first time and so this time I elected to read aloud to my friend so we could both analyze the information. Kim McCrabben, referenced as PK1 in the police report was stated to have been on the phone talking with her ex-boyfriend. It was stated that the phone call lasted 4 minutes and 26 seconds. That seemed like a long time to be on the phone when she had previously claimed to me that she was entertaining guests in her home that evening. Following the conversation, my father had expressed that he had left a note for her in his mailbox and the she heard a gunshot. McCrabben’s next move, according to the report was to retrieve said note from the mailbox and make one attempt to get someone to the door of my fathers locked apartment. When her single attempt failed, she retreated to her home across the street and had her friend call 911.

STOP! I took a big swig of my wine and looked at my friend. Her mouth was slightly open, displaying her shock with what I had just read, she too filled it with wine. “So let me get this straight,” I thought aloud, “you’re ex boyfriends calls and you have an unknown conversation that lasts almost five minutes and is ended only by the sound of a gunshot. As a “loving ex- girlfriend” (as she claimed) you’re only move it to go to the mailbox to retrieve some letter and knock on the door once to see if there was a response. After one measly attempt, you take your letter and return back to your home across the street where you aren’t even the one to report the information to 911?! What kind of bullshit is that? Another swig of wine. “What was this girl thinking?” I asked my friend, although I was sure she was a perplexed as I was. Still, I needed to know the connection between McCrabben, my father, and Amy Rees.

Reading further into the report, it lists Amy Rees (referred to as PK2) as being the “current girlfriend” of my father. The report states that the police contacted her after McCrabben informed them of their relationship. HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE!  Not only are you his recent ex-girlfriend who claimed to be madly in love with him, but now you are both aware of his new relationship with Rees AND able to provide her contact information to the police. How the hell did the responding officers not find any of this questionable? I mean, who really has the contact information for their ex’s current fling right at their fingertips? Clearly Rochester Police Department was sleeping when they responded to this call because we have a dead man, an ex-girlfriend with a suicide letter and who is able to provide ample contact information for a current girlfriend. Hello officers?!?!?! FOUL PLAY is written out in the snow on the front lawn big enough to been seen from fucking space!

The report goes on to list that Amy Rees comes to the scene and together with McCrabben begin to formulate a list of people to contact; thus how I was originally called in the middle of the night. I poured what appeared to be the last of the bottle into my glass and starred at my friend who was feverishly typing into the computer. She stopped abruptly and sucked in a big gulp of air in shock. “What?!” I yelled, “What did you find?” She spun the computer around so the screen was now visible to me. She had doubled the screen to display both Amy Rees’ Facebook and McCrabben Facebook simultaneously. Two pictures, both dated December 15th 2009 were displayed on the page. Each depicted the woman in question alongside my father. Rees’ was at the Amerk’s game, while McCrabben’s appeared to be in a restaurant, it was too dark to make out which one. In the bottom of the screen was an image showing the date of when Rees and McCrabben became cyber friends; December 2009. Analyzing the pictures I had to begin to think aloud again. “So both of these women claimed to be madly in love with my father, yet both of them seem to know that the other existed. They had developed a friendship at least one month prior to his death and both women were called to the crime scene. McCrabben was left what appeared to be a large sum of money, and yet Rees had not come forward with any ill feelings about this.” I was no detective, and I surely had no training in police work, but this seemed pretty suspect to me. And sure, I was a bottle of wine into my investigation, but that didn’t make the facts any less evident. Why was it that I was the only one who had seen this? Myself and my friend, coupled by two bottles of wine had disclosed more about this “case” than the RPD had bothered to include in their report

Something was definitely off here, and I planned to continue to work to find the answers. That was, after I sobered up. My friend looked at me with tears in her eyes. ” I have an extra bed” she offered. I smiled at her, I couldn’t be any more gracious for what she had done with and for me thus far. “Thanks,” I said, but would you mind if I took the couch? The lake is calming and I think I would be best served by waking to its tranquil beauty in the morning. I have a lot to do tomorrow and I fear it is the only time I will feel any sense of calm.

The title of this Bob Dylan classic is fundamentally sad. While it takes a lot to make us laugh, it takes something as simple and as mundane as a train and its consequent associations,to make us cry. I shed so many tears during this time in my life, that I found it necessary to treasure the moments in which I did find humor, and laughter would come.

I found my legs propelling my body through the increasingly dense crowd. I was moving to gain a better line of vision so that I might bear witness to the next surprise that was waiting.I spotted my grandmother and my aunt standing in the front of the room, flanked at their sides by a priest?! For the love! Was there anyone involved in the planning of this viewing that actually knew my father and respected his wishes? My father had never spoken of religious affiliations, he did not sit and pray for things, and apart from my wedding I had never actually seen my father in a church. But yet here I was, standing at his viewing with a previously open casket and now a priest.

My grandmother motioned for me to join her to which I shook my head in polite decline; as polite as I could muster to the woman who was responsible for my tortured last image of my father that was now ingrained in my thoughts and who had now brought yet another unwelcome surprise. She tried to get Kim to join her as well. “I’m Lutheran” she responded curtly. Damn! Why didn’t I think of something like that? I would convert in this moment just to avoid the looks I was getting from the crowd.

Finding no one to join their little impromptu show, the priest began leading the group in a prayer. He then commented on some of the characteristics of my father’s personality saying he was such a “giving soul.” Of course this was all true, but it angered me to hear it from a strangers mouth. It wasn’t but a few moments of him speaking when he offered the floor to anyone who wanted to speak about my father; crickets. I am sure this was not because they all didn’t have wonderful things to say, many of them had shared those with me this evening already. But rather the fact that was not only unexpected, but kind of inappropriate, and anyone who had any true sense of my true father was thinking the same thing I was “why the fuck is there a priest here?”

The priest asked the group again for someone to share a memory or a thought, all the while stating it was to make my grandmother smile at kind words about her son; the true reason had displayed itself. Still, crickets. I am pretty sure the priest was about to give up on any engagement from this crowd when from somewhere in the back a man’s voice bellowed “Got any Bob Dylan?” A light laughter erupted from the crowd and I could see the smiles on the faces of everyone he loved; I could even feel a small smile begin to spread across my own face. Who said that? And why wasn’t this guy up here leading us in the walk down memory lane? This person clearly knew exactly who my father was.

With that modd lifting comment the crowd began to disperse back into their pods of conversation. Many people came to say goodbye and give another hug, or handshake or offer more condolences. I had become numb to all of it at this point and was offering up the shy smiles and “thank you’s” where necessary. As the crowd thinned I looked around for McCrabbed, not because I wanted to see her, but because I needed to watch what the evil little wench was going to do next. That old saying “keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” This bitch was going to need to be strapped to by hip, or the back of car; I hadn’t decided yet. McCrabben was no where in sight. I imagined she must have finally decided she had caused all of the destruction she could for one day and retreated to her lair (the term “home” is reserved for people with some sense of dignity; McCrabben most definitely occupied a lair).

I found my Mom, Aunt Becky and other supporters a joined their conversation. At this point almost the entire room was clear and Kiera was wandering around taking random flowers from the arrangements; kids. Mimi had invited some of the out of town visitors back to her house for coffee and dessert; Ms. Manners she was. I pulled my mom aside and told her I wasn’t really up for any more conversation that evening. The thought of sitting around and having people either talk about my Dad or dance around the subject was just too strenuous on my mind in its current state.

“I understand Fib, but you can’t go back to Mimi’s and just go to bed with a house full of guests.” my mom explained gently. (Ms. Manners had a daughter)

“I know,” I told her. “I think I am going to catch a ride with my friend and hang at her hose for a bit. She can bring me back when the house crowd dies down.” I forced a reassuring smile to spread across my lips in an effort to ease any of my mother’s concerns. I don’t think it was foolproof, but it must have sufficed because my mom was wrapping me in her arms and whispering in my ear to be safe. “Always Mom” I stated, pulling away from her embrace to look her directly in the eyes. “Always.” In the last few days it had been more difficult than usual to leave her, even for just an hour or so. I wondered if this was a feeling that would pass with time and worried that it wasn’t.

Our embrace was interrupted by a heavy, powerful pounding accompanied by some bellowing cries. I could barely make out the words other than “why” and “how could you.” The pounding was persistent and sounded as if it was coming from….holy shit!  As my eyes followed the noise, I finally settled on the source, my Dad’s friend Frank (I recognized him from a few brief introductions). The pounding was his large Italian fists laying all of their might into the casket, and the horrible cries were audible through his sobs. Was this a fucking joke? Who brought this guy? And what exactly was going through his mind at the current moment? Listen guy, if I have to hold it together at my dead father’s viewing with his corrupt ex-whatever she was reeking havoc on every moment, then surely you could find it within your extra large Italian frame to perhaps NOT beat the shit out of the casket. Just a thought. His outrageous outburst was calmed by a combination of funeral goers and the director. I turned to look at my mom, with my jaw probably open wide enough to stash a grapefruit in, or a small animal (whichever you fancy). “Everyone grieves differently” she said in her usual calm tone. Ya okay, thanks Dalai.

My friend materialized at my side as if she could hear my thoughts screaming that I was ready to get the hell out of here. She headed out to start the car and I told her I would be right out. The room, empty now, seemed more dismal than ever. I stood in the silence for a moment, half expecting to hear my father’s voice, half expecting Bob Dylan to walk in (it had been one of those days). I starred at the casket, the beautifully crafted wood that now provided temporary shelter to the body of my father. I so desperately wanted to call it a box, to dismiss the thought of anything more and to turn and walk away without any desire to look back; I wanted these things but I couldn’t achieve them; not in this moment. In this moment I was forced to finally recognize the reality of my current situation, the reality of how drastically my life had changed; forever. I walked slowly toward the casket, feeling driven by a need to gain some small sense of understanding. Someone had removed the blanket of cascading flowers that Kiera and I had picked, undoubtedly a good doing family member looking to save a memory for us. And now what was left was just the casket; just some wood and lining between myself and my father. As I reached out my hand to graze the top of the smooth, elegant wood I could hear his voice in my head repeating those profound words that I knew were meant for me, in this moment.“Just when I think I have learned the way to live, my life changes and I am left the same as I began. The more things change the more I am the same. There will never be a means to ends, only means; and I am means. I am what I started with, and when it is all over I will be all that is left of me.”

“I am means”, I thought to myself; “my life has changed, but I am means. I don’t need an “end” to fight for, I need the right here right now answers.” I ran my fingers over the intricate scroll work of the casket. For the first time in many days I felt that I had gained a small understanding of my future as based on current events. “You always knew what to say,” I whispered “or rather write.” I lightly kissed the palm of my hand and placed it on the top of the casket where I imaged his forehead would be. Don’t worry Dad, I am going to figure this all out; for everyone.

I quickly turned and started my retreat to the door. I willed myself to keep my eyes forward, knowing if I looked back there was nothing to stop me from laying on top of that casket and crying until there were no tears left to shed; And I am pretty sure the funeral director would see that as a faux-pas. I grabbed my coat and headed to the parking lot to meet my friend. Spotting her car I trudged across the parking lot to get in. I no longer cared about wet stocking feet. As I plopped down in the passengers seat I looked over at her with a little smirk painted on my face. “Are you up for some more detective work?” I asked her. Let’s get a bottle of wine and a computer, we have some digging to do. My friend nodded with approval, “it’s your world girl, I’m just living in it.” It was my world at the moment I guess, and now that his was “all over” I was determined to find out “all that was left of him.”

 

 

“I glanced into the chamber where the judges were talking
Darkness was everywhere, it smelled like a tomb
I was ready to leave, I was already walkin’
But the next time I looked there was light in the room.”

-Bob Dylan

It has been said that a person does not truly know how much they are loved until they are gone; my father’s viewing was no exception. People from all walks of his life came to pay their respects. Friends, relatives, co-workers; people I hadn’t seen in 20 years.  To see how many people had been touched by father was enlightening, heart warming and exhausting.

I am not sure of the person who designed the idea of a receiving line for a viewing but I have a tiny place in my soul full of resentment and rage just for them. Standing in the formation of a line to allow others to bestow both their grief and condolences on you one after another for hours on end? I mean really, who the hell thought this crap up? Yes, please tell me how sorry you are and then give me yet another story that ends in tears to add to the nights collection. For the love! I understand that we all grieve differently and that it can extend to many people but having my raw emotions put on public display was just too much to handle. After a bit of time I broke away from the “line” for a break. I didn’t make it but a few steps when someone would stop me to begin their favorite tale starring my father and I would listen and nod and try with all of my strength to give them the look of grief they expected without crying yet again.

As I stood listening to an old friend of my father’s talk, I allowed my eyes to wander the crowded room for just a moment. It was then that I spotted a familiar face. I would know those striking blue eyes anywhere, anyone would. We locked eyes for a moment and I felt a sense of relief wash over me. In a room full of people who were otherwise strangers, it was refreshing to find someone that knew myself and my father so well. You see, Nick would have liked us all to believe that he was my Dad’s best friend; and 20+ years ago he probably was. But that time had passed, and for the last decade or so I had known my father to be closest with this blue eyed man; Billy. Thankfully he came right toward me and stopped the endless story that was currently being recited to me. He greeted me so warmly and there was something so familiar about him that I had to fight back the tears again. I knew I was embracing a man that knew my father the best, the one person in this room that could really say they knew the man lying in that box up until the very last day. Hugging Billy made me feel somehow closer to my Dad; a feeling he would bestow on me many times in the future. We chatted for a while, nothing about the viewing or the scathing events from the last few days; just honest small talk. He had come in from a trip to Vegas that he had cut short in order to be here. The noble act of a true friend. I could feel other people start to encroach on the space I was in, their eyes burning into my head for the opportunity to tell their story. Knowing it was inevitable to hear them out, I promised Billy we would have coffee before I left town and we parted ways. It felt as if I had gotten a second wind, just from having an honest conversation about really nothing at all. Maybe it was because I had this sense in my heart the Billy was going to be able to open my eyes to the answers of the many questions I had about my father; that he knew more of the truth than anyone.

I checked my watch, shit; I was only two hours into this, a measly half way. I did an internal eye roll at the thought of repeating the same conversations I had just had over the last two hours when something, or should I say someone caught my eye as they hurried through the front door to get out of the cold. I was instantly alert, my defenses kicking into overdrive. My face was flushed and hot with fury. I felt my muscles tighten up and my hands began to make fists without me even realizing; my fingernails digging into my palms so hard I thought I would shed blood. McCraben had just walked into the funeral home, flanked at her side by her troll of a mother and a group of equally vile friends. They were all dressed in yoga pants and Ugg boots, a style that I loathed in general but that was even more shameless to adorn to a viewing. As I stood frozen in silent rage I suddenly felt my own personal protection come to my side. My Mom and my Aunt Becky had somehow made it across the room in a nanosecond, without me ever having to turn around to ask. “I can’t deal with her bullshit tonight; she shouldn’t be here!” The words came out in an angry whisper that resembled something of a hiss. Great, now I was a fucking cat. Add that to the list of things I had come to hate; flowers, surprises and cats.

The Dalai Lama side of my mother thought she could reason with the woman who had brought that scandalous girl into the world in the first place. Bless her heart though, she believed that a mother- to -mother chat would dissolve this situation. I watched as she approached the woman, introducing herself and starting a conversation. McCrabben and her friends locked eyes on me while I watched the conversation unfold. It wasn’t but a minute later that my mother returned to us and I could see the anger threatening to rear it’s ugly head for a relapse. Apparently this woman was a pathetic excuse for a mother and had no sense of obligation to leave when asked. She felt entitled to be in that room with her daughter and was clear that they weren’t going anywhere; apples and trees. I promised my mother I would steer clear of the hideous group and she promised to keep me in her sights. I truly didn’t understand why McCrabbed was there anyways, who the hell was going to talk to her?

It wasn’t long before I was back on the floor greeting more people, hearing more stories and shedding more tears. It was difficult to maintain composure, especially knowing McCrabben and I were sharing the same air; a thought that was so repulsive I wanted to vomit. Finishing with another mourner and making my way across the room for some water, I was forced to side step many large gatherings of people. As I walked I wondered if my Dad was watching this and now realized how many people loved him. Maybe if he had known sooner this would be a different kind of gathering. I was trying to make my way through the crowd unnoticed when I was abruptly cut off right in front of the casket. I never wanted to be this close as it was, and now I was stuck front and center with a giant road block in my path. I was about to excuse myself past the person when I was jolted by a sudden sense of panic. It was that physiological reaction of “fight or flight” and in this moment, mine was definitely fight. I starred into the soulless eyes of my current road block, McCrabben. I waited for my Mom and Aunt Becky to appear at my side once again, but I knew their line of vision had been obstructed by the crowd. I was on my own this time; standing in front of my father’s casket faced with the poorly dressed, vile image of a woman who was hell bent on ruining what was left of my existence.

Even though the chatter of the room was low, it made a combined noise that would (thankfully) drown our conversation to others. I made a move to side step her, so as to maintain my composure. I knew that once engaged in conversation, I had no hope of displaying any dignity whatsoever. “Your Dad would have wanted me here,” she began, “we were close and I know what he wanted.” I made it appear that the crowd had forced me to get as close to her face as I had become, as if I were merely trying to hear her over the noise and so it would seem natural that my nose was nearly touching hers. But there was nothing natural about this, any of this. It wasn’t enough what she had already done, it didn’t fulfill her evil soul to have showed up tonight, despite my warning and those from my mother. This bitch wanted to turn the knife while it was logged in my heart, turn it with a forceful twist that I felt throughout my whole body. I smiled at her words, letting her know that try and she might she was not going to get the best of me that easily. I turned my face ever so slightly so that my mouth was as close to her ear as I could get without actually touching her and I whispered “You were and are nothing more than a casualty of some strange mid-life crisis,  a secret he didn’t want anyone to know about and that was easily discarded. You are not, nor will you have be more than a small blip on the radar of his life. You are worthless and disgusting and I don’t care how long I have to drag this out in court, I would rather piss away all of the money in attorney fee’s than have you get your grimy hands on a cent that he worked so hard for. Mark my words, you have done your last shitty thing to my family without repercussions.” I moved back so she could see my face and read the seriousness of it all across my tiny smirk. “Now I am going to walk away because there are people here to see me, and I think you should think about making your exit. After all, no one wants to speak to the whore. I glided past her with ease, although my body was trembling from the adrenaline of the whole encounter. My sense of fight was over and I so desperately wanted to embrace the “flight.”Where was my mother? Had she witnessed any of this? I started for the door to get some air when someone called for the attention of the room. My grandmother was there and asking for the immediate family to join her in the front. I eyed the door to my left, only a few steps left between me and some much needed air.  I don’t suppose there was any chance that my absence would go unnoticed? Deciding against it, I started for the front. What surprises were being added to evenings agenda now? Because I thought I had made it known by now, that I had come to hate surprises.

 

 

 

My eyes fluttered open as the sound of low murmur of conversation brought me back to consciousness. It took me a minute to gather my thoughts and do a self check on what had all gone on the evening before. The old brass bed moaned as I reached over for my water. I grabbed three Advil to chase away the pounding sensation coming from my head and a Xanax to chase away, well anything else. Today was the funeral, and if I had any chance of making it through in even the resemblance of one piece, I was going to need some help from my lovely little pain relieving friends.

I had arrived back at Mimi’s so late last night, or should I say early this morning, that even Papa couldn’t wait up for me; but he always left the light on. I had tried to be as quiet as possible with my entrance, but we all know how that works out when you have had a few. What I thought was a near silent entry had probably woken everyone from their sleep. I had shoved the brown loafers under my coat like a kid trying to sneak a lost animal into the house; or a small time criminal trying to hide their current loot; tomato, tomato.

I put myself together and headed downstairs for coffee and chatting with my mom and Mimi. I had no intention of telling either of them what had gone on last night; there was no reason to worry them. As it was they would be concerned enough with my time of arrival and the noticeable combination of cocktails.

Coming downstairs it was as if everyone had suddenly taken a seat on a carton of eggs and didn’t want to move for fear of winding up with yolk on their ass. I forced a smile with my good morning to assure them all that I was still alive and functioning. I could see them relax back into their chairs and the invisible egg cartons began to fade. I poured a cup of coffee and took my seat at the table. My mom began to go over the details of the day with me, after all she had taken my seat at the planning of the funeral so I was a bit removed from what today would actually “look like.”

Mom explained that there was going to be a brief time prior to the public calling hours that immediate family would be allowed to sit with the casket. I thought this a bit odd being as we weren’t having an actual viewing, but I welcomed the idea of being able to ease into the room without everyone and their mother watching. If I was going to spend four hours in a room with a box holding my father’s body, I was going to need some transition time. My mom must have been able to read the emotions on my face, as mothers can, because she ended her statement with “of course I will be there with you the whole time.” The sound of those words made my invisible egg carton fade as well.

She said I had a little bit of time to myself before we had to begin preparing to leave. The calling hours were mid day because it was a weekend and my early morning arrival home had caused me to sleep well into the 11:00 hour. Mimi was making her infamous “dump cake” and some appetizers for guests that would come to the house afterwords. I decided it was best to keep my mind and body busy and so I offered to help.

I wasted away the rest of the afternoon blissfully watching Mimi in the kitchen and helping where I could. It wasn’t as if I could take one dish and she take another because there wasn’t a recipe for anything she was doing. The ingredients and process steps were stored in her mind and she always added things by the “pinch” or “splash.” Frustrating if you actually wanted to make something of hers but amazing to witness the chemistry of it all. I was so enthralled in watching her create that it felt like no had time had passed and she was already shooing me from the kitchen to start getting ready.

Mimi had lent me her waterproof mascara so that I had some chance of not turning into a zombie from the sight of black lines streaking down both sides of my face; she was always thinking. I applied the rest of my makeup in a robotic fashion, going through the motions but not really invested in what I was doing. What was it going to matter anyways? Who was actually going to expect me to look good tonight? I was aiming for merely presentable and even that was a stretch. I slid into my satin top and black nylons. As I reached for the zipper on my black pencil skirt I heard a tiny rip. Son of a bitch, I only had one outfit in which to receive my dead father in and now it had a rip. How was that even possible when I had consumed very little food and chosen the path of liquid diet for the last few days? I removed the skirt, replaced it with sweats and headed downstairs to ask for help. There was something about standing in the living room all done up with my nylons under my sweats, holding my ripped skirt that was so “kick you when your down.”  But Mimi was a force to be reckoned with when armed with her sewing kit and I was back into my skirt in no time. I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or distressed about the solution to my problem as it now meant I was physically ready to head to the funeral home. I put on my heels and pea coat and stood at the door with Mom at my side. Mimi squeezed me hard and promised she would be there as soon as the public viewing began. I was definitely lucky to have such familial support for this evening.

Arriving at the funeral home Mom chose a spot close to the door. No need to face this evening with wet feat on top of everything else. We sat for a minute with the car idling, no one having anything to say. Finally I released and confessed “I am scared.” Three simple words that carried so much weight. “I know you are Fib, but you are tough and you will get through this just fine, you always do.” Mom always had more confidence in me than I ever did for myself.

I reluctantly followed her into the funeral home. (I would have been dragging my feet if I wasn’t so concerned with the snow falling into my shoes) Nothing sucked more than trying to step around the snow and having little sprinkles fall into your heels where they would melt and eventually cause puddles to form in the crevices of your feet. The funeral director greeted us at the door and directed us to the room that had been set aside for my father. A small sign was present at the door in script writing that read “Viewing for Jeffrey M. Smith.” Reading the sign was like being punched in the gut; this was really happening. I talked myself into each movement by reminding myself that it was just a room, a room with a box. I wasn’t going to see him, he wasn’t even really going to be there. It was just a nicely decorated room with a box. These descriptors helped me to relax a bit and remove some of the building emotion from the moment. My mom held her hand on the door and gave me a questioning look. I nodded in response, a nonverbal signal letting her know I was as ready as I was going to be. She opened the door to the room and stepped inside, I followed so closely behind her that she didn’t have time to stop me, although she tried. She spun around and tried to usher me back out from where we had come, her sense of urgency not hidden behind her trying gentle shoves. All it took was just one glance over her shoulder for me to realize why she was so adamant about my retreat. My eyes moved from my mother’s gaze, past her shoulder and landed on the casket; the open casket. What the fuck? My eyes could no un-see the image that was now bore into my brain, the sight of my very first dead body, and it was my father. The room began to spin and black started to could my vision. I reached out for anything to steady my footing and collapsed into my mothers outstretched arms. She propped me up, keeping a wall between my line of vision and the casket. I could no longer see it as just a ‘box” because he was there.

My mom helped me to the restroom and put a cool, damp paper towel on my neck. Her apologies were prevalent, but sounded muffled against the deafening pounding of my head.  It was clear that this was not what they had decided when they met at the funeral home. I agreed to stay in the restroom until she could rectify the situation. To be a fly on the wall when she went to address my paternal grandmother and aunt. You see, my mom had adopted the patience and virtue of the Dali Lama in her most recent years, but lets face it, she was reformed from her prior years of displaying outward rage; and sometimes we all fall off the wagon.  Especially when you decided with my paternal family to have a closed casket not only because that is what my father had wanted but also for the sanity of his daughters, and then you deliver the unsettling surprise of an open viewing.

I sat in the restroom trying to gain back the confidence I had spent all day building up inside, but each time I closed my eyes to breathe I saw the image of my father’s body behind my eyelids. It didn’t look like him, so much so that I spent a few minutes thinking it might not have even been him. I glanced at my watch; shit. There was only fifteen minutes until the public viewing and I was a hot fucking mess. I pulled myself to a standing position with a strong grip on the counter and leaned into the mirror to check. Mental note, thank Mimi for the waterproof mascara without which I would have started my night as a zombie.

My Mom interrupted my quality control check to let me know that they had closed the casket. If I wanted to have a few minutes alone with Dad I could now, but I had to decide quickly because she had also noticed the time. I followed her out to repeat the same grueling process of entering the room once again; this time there better not be any damn surprises. It was now official, I had come to hate both flowers and surprises.

Well now what’s the use in dreaming
You got better things to do
Dreams never did work for me anyway
Even when they did come true

                      -Bob Dylan

Shortly after I found myself sitting at a local bar, one of my old stomping grounds, chatting away with a friend as if my life was completely normal; almost. After we had played catch up on our lives from the last time we had talked the reality of the present set in, and we began to discuss the last few days.

I told my friend about the incident at the office, and the events that had occurred that day at the apartment. I tried to shake the anger from my sentences, but that only frustrated me more. Every time I had to force her name from my mouth I felt the need to rinse it with a swig of my cocktail; (definitely not a dirty martini this time, you only have to fool me once!) It was like when your mother threatened to (or actually did) wash your mouth out with soap when you cursed in front of her. The alcohol did the same work as the soap and McCrabben was definitely a curse word in my new book.

As I dug deeper into the events from the apartment, I began to ask questions aloud; ones that I now know I should have kept inside my head. “What would really happen if we went there and broke in? Do you truly believe the police would arrest me, the grieving daughter for wanting to be inside her recently deceased father’s home?”

My friend starred at me for a moment, and then it became clear that she too had indulged in washing out her mouth. “Of course not! If you started to tell them even a little of what you have been going through they would have to understand!” Her words were empowering, they made me feel as if I could finally exert some control over all of the madness that had been spreading itself through my life. “So let’s do it” I said my voice full of aspirations for a new adventure. We polished off our drinks as we began to formulate a plan, you know, just “in case.” Or logic at the time was admittedly a bit skewed, but the liquid courage was a force to be reckoned with.

We decided that we could call her current boyfriend, who worked for FedEx at the time and ask him to sit watch for us in the driveway while we went to work going inside. Our plan was that he would pretend to be looking up an address if the police arrived because he was to deliver a package to my father’s house but it required a signature for delivery. Forget that it was now going on 11:00 pm and the holiday season was over. Never mind the idea that FedEx would not be delivering anything at that hour; and please don’t pay attention to the red Volkswagen Jetta he was in, FedEx always allowed their employee’s to deliver after hours in personal vehicles. Like I said; liquid courage.

My friend parked down the street from my father’s apartment and we walked the rest of the way; no need to draw attention just yet. Every step I took closer to the home made me feel more in control. It was the first time I had felt that there was something in this cluster-fuck of a situation that I could actually do; and was ready to do. McCrabben lived just across the street, I resisted the urge to let go of some liquid courage on her front step and continued on my mission.

We made it to the back entrance, so as to draw the least amount of attention possible; there were other tenants in this building. I managed the screen door without any trouble, push in and lift up, just like home. That brought us into the foyer. I looked around at the few decorations, umbrella and a few pairs of shoes. I fought the tears back with some difficulty when I eyed the brown loafers with the tassel on the top. These had been like Dad’s go to shoes since I was a kid. Truthfully, I would have made fun of anyone else I saw wearing them, but he just always made it work, even without socks! Those shoes had walked so many steps, walked with me so many times before; and yet there they sat, never to go on another journey again. My friend’s voice snapped me back to attention and I quickly grabbed onto the shoes. They were not going to be left here to end up in the trash; not after all of the moments of my life they had walked through.

My friend eyed me funny as she saw me holding the old beat up pair of loafers. “They just… well they are just the essence of him. I need to have them.” I tried desperately to find the words that would not make me look like a crazy person with a shoe fetish. She nodded in response as if she understood completely what I was saying.

We started to examine the lock on the back door, handle would be easy but there was no way of telling if the deadbolt was turned as well. I had watched Nick do the one on the front door earlier in the day, but I wondered if he had thought to check this one as well. The handle to the door was for a key which I clearly did not have. I did however have a friend with very long hair and a bobby pin holding up her half ponytail Snookie inspired poof on her head. She gave me the tool and I went to work on the lock. Not that I was a professional or anything, but I had been a very forgetful teenager who locked herself out of the house on many occasions. In just a few moments the door knob turned in my hand as smooth as butter. I let go immediately, wanting to plan out the rest of this mission first. I was scared to push the door, scared I would be met with the deadbolt and another dead end. I wasn’t sure I had the gall to Van Damme the door in just yet. I studied the lock for a moment, trying with my eyes to will the deadbolt to be out of place; this was my only chance. As I reached a shaky hand for the knob again my friend phone let off some cray ass ringtone that sounded a lot like Jennifer Lopez circa 2001. I was so startled that I lost my footing and slipped against the coat rack next to the door. It came crashing down against the glass frame window drawing even more attention to our small scale crime.

My friend answered her phone knowing (apparently by the ringtone) that it was her boyfriend aka, our “lookout.” He said a midnight blue Honda had pulled up to the front of the house and was sitting idle on the street. “Blue Honda,” my friend repeated to me, “know anyone with one of those?”

“McCrabben!” I hissed at saying her name and the thought of her ruining my opportunity again. This girl as like a fucking boil on my ass that wouldn’t go away. I started for the door with every intention of confronting her in the street, I had just about enough of her bullshit. She apparently thought this was a game and I needed to show her that I didn’t loose.

My friend, who was now taking on the role of my chauffeur, therapist and conscious grabbed my shoulder pulling me back. “You can’t go out there!” her tone was firm and serious. “You already know she had an injunction placed on entry of the house, you can’t serve her up a reason to attack you on a silver fucking platter. We have to play smart, not hard.” Her words were falling on deaf ears, I couldn’t take this girl trying to insert herself in my life where she didn’t fucking belong. I struggled against her grip, my eyes wide with intent and my skin hot with rage. A new hat for my friend to try, (she was just racking these up); security. I felt her other hand come out of nowhere and land hard on my free shoulder. She spun me around and pressed her forehead to mine.

“I know you are hurting and I don’t blame you for what you want to do, but I am not going to let you hand this bitch any ammunition. ”

I stared hard into her eyes for a few moments and then I felt my shoulders begin to relax. She was right, as painful as it was to admit and even more so to adhere to. I shook my head in agreement, I was still too enraged to speak. Just as we were about to make a break for the “getaway” car my friend phone buzzed. Thank goodness for text messages set to vibrate. It read: She has two other people with her, it’s time to get out of here. I’ll drive around the block and park behind your car. Go through the back lot, less attention; NOW.

I grabbed my brown loafers (my claim to fame and trophy for the current mission) and followed my friend out the back door. We set the lock on the screen, but didn’t bother to waste time with the handle. At very least someone would believe they forgot to lock only the handle as not exterior door was left open.

Quick on our feet we made it back to my friends car without seeing another human being anywhere. Her boyfriend flashed his lights behind us to let us know he was there and we drove off. From the window I watched the tires plowing through the wet snow and slush that now filled the streets; pushing it aside as if it was nothing at all. I felt like slush. I felt like dirty wet precipitation that had once been beautiful, light snow; but was now discarded on the road as a wet pile that would soon turn into water and be washed away. I was the slush; and McCrabben was driving the car.

 

Bob Dylan’s song titled “This Dream of You” depicts a man who dreams of a lost love. This dream, which the man sometimes mistakes for reality, is what keeps him going through his otherwise miserable existence. Within the song, Dylan describes “nowhere cafe” which is less of a physical place and more of a state of mental existence.The cafe doesn’t give a location that can be found on a map, but if you have those kind of thoughts and feelings Dylan eludes to, then you know where the guy is. He’s right where you are. If you don’t have those thoughts and feelings then he doesn’t exist. It isn’t quite reality that we need to drive our existence, it is the life in the subconscious that can often offer the most comfort.

I honestly do not know how I managed to move my feet into that house; each step felt like walking toward the edge of a cliff with no intention of stopping at the edge. I had a sudden flash of memory where I saw my father’s tattoo that he had on his left shoulder. It was a picture of Vangogh’s starry night cascading across the top and an image of a rock ledge hovering beneath it. “Precipice” was  inscribed on the rock and beneath it all it said “standing on the edge as though you were protected.” I felt as if that ledge was the threshold to the apartment, and I was surely feeling anything but protected.

Kiera went right for her room, looking for some of her own things that she had kept there when she stayed. Keeping an eye and ear out for her, I stood int he middle of the master bedroom starring at the unmade bed. There was a water glass on the bedside table, a few books and magazines and a pair of shorts laying on the floor. It looked as if he had just gotten up for the day and had yet to complete the small tasks of cleaning. I half imagined him in the kitchen making a cup of coffee; or espresso with that fancy machine of his; I mean surely he was meant to come in and make the bed?

My phone buzzed me from my day dream; Kim. Well there’s a smart lady. Just because that bitch wasn’t allowing her in, didn’t mean she had to be “out” either. I answered and kept her on the phone while I wandered the house. She helped me to remember the things that were of value (both monetary and sentimental). We didn’t want to leave the house full of valuables with McCrabben lurking at the entryway. Unfortunately, everything I sought out was already gone, missing it seemed. Watches, jewelry, wallets, passport, I couldn’t find any of it. Worst of all, I had spent some time looking for Kim’s wedding ring and had come up empty handed on that end as well. After 25 years of marriage, no matter what the situation was, the ring still held a strong sentimental value and it was complete bullshit that all of these things were gone. Who the hell would come into a deceased person’s home and ransack it for anything worth money? Who in their right mind would think it at all appropriate to take a ring that represented love and companionship spread over 25 years. Who was the low life piece of shit that thought they were entitled to even be inside my fathers house, let alone have anything from it. I raged internally at McCrabben and her severely screwed antics. Would this girl stop at anything?

Nick asked me to pick out clothes for my father to be in for the service as he would not yet be cremated. I thought it strange that there would even be a reason to consider dress for someone we were not going to view, but nonetheless selected a shirt and pants from the closet. Kiera asked for the “wolf tie” that she had given him to go with the ensemble, and so we picked out the three items and handed them to Nick to deliver to the funeral home. I wondered if we were supposed to include undergarments and socks as well but felt instantly foolish as I pictured the mortuary make-up artist trying to put underwear on my father. Seriously though, do people do that, or is it just assumed that all deceased persons were going “commando?”

Nick was quite obnoxious throughout the ordeal and started to rush us out at the end. I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that there was a time limit placed on my visit to my dead father’s home; clearly I needed a guide book for this experience. Is there an Idiots Guide to Death Etiquette? Mental note, get it or write it because that shit was going to be a best seller for sure.

I called for Kiera and she came to me with a few articles of clothing, a stuffed animal and some nick knacks from her bedroom. Nick suddenly became more uncomfortable than he already was; if that was even plausible. Shifting his weight from side to side he started to speak to Kiera. His sentence began just as his last string of asshole words outside the house; “Kiera I am sorry but….” I cut him off with harsh “NO!” and a seething look to match. “Nick, do NOT finish that sentence. Kiera has a few personal items she IS taking with her, end of story.” Listen, I am all for playing by the rules, but when the rules are bullshit and the game is rigged, well then all bets are off. I couldn’t believe Nick wasn’t more on my team.  He never did finish that sentence and we left without another word.

We left the apartment and I heard the deadlock tumble with the turn of Nick’s key; locking up all of the answers to my many questions behind one simple door. Kim met me half way to the car and I wasn’t sure if she was crying from grief or rage, as either would have been acceptable. Her wet eyes locked with mine and although no words were exchanged, I could feel the comfort in her hug letting me know she was there for me. I guess I wrong before. I was standing on the edge, but I truly was protected.

I tuned a lot of the conversation out on the ride home, but I picked up that there was speculation as to who was in possession of the missing items. Of course McCrabben was a prime suspect, but apparently my “Uncle Joe,” I use the familial term loosely, had also been in the house. How odd that was being as he was not a person listed on the will. I would investigate that later, right now I just needed to rest my thoughts.

My phone buzzed in my purse and I saw a message from my friend that had played chauffeur on my first night home and the one that had bared witness to the horrific scene at the restaurant with McCrabben.  She asked how I was holding up. “Like a 400lb person trying to do a fucking pull up, ” I thought to myself. I told her I was managing and she quickly responded asking if I was in the mood for company and cocktails. Hmmmm on the eve of my father’s funeral, after learning the details of his will and estate were being controlled by a conniving psycho bitch on a power trip and having to enter the home alone with my sister because of her false sense of entitlement; add on to it some funeral preparations and picking out a “final outfit” and my answer was quick and sure. “Yes, both; please…and soon!”

She offered to resume her role as chauffeur again that night and I didn’t protest because let’s face it I had been driving on God’s will the last few times I had taken the wheel and I was sure he had other things to do and that my “free pass” was soon to expire.

Kim dropped me at Mimi’s with some final hugs and promises to call first thing in the morning. I kissed her parents goodbye and held Kiera in a warm embrace just a few seconds longer. “Protected”, I thought. Dad I really hope you are protecting her now; she needs you, we both do.

Inside, I spoke briefly to Mimi and Mom about the visit to the apartment, trying not to give too much detail because I feared falling back into that sense of uncontrollable rage once again. I told them about my meeting with a friend and promised to be both careful and home early.

I went upstairs to change into something a bit more friendly and less depressed looking; no easy feat with a bag full of Texas clothing when it was January in Rochester. Layers were really my only option. This will be a nice break from the events of the day, I thought. A few drinks and laughs was just the medicine I needed. I heard the honk from the driveway and grabbed my purse. I gave kisses all around as I left the house. I thought it was going to be a relaxing evening with a friend, therapy via girl talk and liquid tranquilizer.  What I hadn’t planned on was breaking and entering, a close call with an arrest, and maybe something resembling theft; but then again, nothing in the last 72 hours had bared even the slightest resemblance to anything I had planned. So why start now?