February, 2012
"A Lady Should Be Mentioned In A Newspaper Only Three Times: Birth, Marriage And Death."
"Let's Work On Number Three, Shall We?"
It's a matter of statistics. As we get older, we attend more funerals, memorials and wakes (with the occasional, "Oh, my god, you're getting married again?!" thrown in for fun). One weekend we ferried Mother to three services (it was a bad month in general). A lot of Kennel Club members have left us, a number of the old guard from church, and old timers from her long defunct bridge club or gardening group.
Because her memory is like a steel sieve, we have a tendency to go to any service for which she gets a notice; she might remember them, she might not, what the hell, we'll go. (One time we had the awkward moment of Mother greeting the sister of the deceased with, "Good heavens, I thought it was your funeral!") Mother often went home with ideas for her own funeral (Ducky and I both came away with the conviction that a nice, rowdy wake sounded better than the traditional services); I wouldn't go so far as to say 'a good time was had by all,' but things generally went off pleasantly.
February 9, 2012 brought us the bad news that Kay Tracey, former president of the Corgi Kennel Club (1979 through 1986, 1988 through 1991 and 1996 through 2005) had gone to the rainbow bridge to meet up with Princess, Puffball, Jinxy, Amelia Earhart, Professor Bumbles and some thirteen other Corgis and other dogs, a slew of cats, birds, fish and two boa constrictors named Bonnie and Clyde (Kay was definitely an animal nut). The service was slated for that Saturday.
The funeral had close to 300 people in attendance; the reception even more. One after another, people stood to tell tales of Kay—always sweet, never malicious, and invariably involving pets or animals or some sort. (She also had a potbellied pig at one point, and a baby llama. Glad she didn't live next door—not to speak ill of the dead.)
At the reception, we offered our condolences to Kay's children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren (her husband having shuffled off this mortal coil some twenty years before) and parked Mother at a table in the corner and made sure one of both of us was ready at all times to get refreshments or run interference.
"Ohhhhh, craaaaaaap," I whispered, sucking in a breath. Ducky looked up, surprised. "Battle stations. Incoming, two o'clock."
Ducky turned ever so casually, and I saw his spine stiffen. He moaned faintly.
"Donald! Are you ill?"
"Just a touch of indigestion, Mother."
Indigestion—in the person of Emmaline Dickenson—was bearing our way like the Queen Mary. (An apt analogy—she was at least that old, almost that large and left uneasy waters in her wake.) Emmaline was bossy, bitchy and controlling, things that made her a great political news reporter, but not such a great mother—or, worse, mother-in-law. And therein lies the rub. Not long after moving to Virginia, Ducky met Emmaline's youngest daughter, they had a delightful romance—he didn't connect the two of them, since Dickenson was Emmy's professional (and maiden) name. Once he realized what a mother-in-law bullet he ducked, he was far more careful in his romantic encounters—but Emmaline held a grudge for her daughter's blighted romance and considered Mother a mortal enemy. (Never mind that her daughter didn't hold a grudge.)
HMS Emmaline sailed up to our table and stopped short. She looked at Mother, frowned faintly, looked at Ducky, frowned more… looked at me and became absolutely baffled. "Hello," I said cautiously.
"Hello." Her voice was equally uncertain. She looked around the table again. "It was a lovely service."
"Yes. Yes, it was," I agreed.
Another silence. "I don't know you."
No; I had heard everything secondhand. "No, you don't."
She looked from Ducky to Mother. "Do I know you?"
Uh-oh. Looks like Mother isn't the only one with a few fries missing from her happy meal. "Yes," Ducky said cautiously.
Mother gave her an irritated look. "I don't know you."
"We aren't friends?" Emmaline pushed for confirmation.
Mother looked her most haughty. "No."
"Good. Let's keep it that way." Emmaline nodded decisively and sailed off.
The title is from a conversation with my mother, who swore she overheard it at a party back in the late 30s. One has to wonder just what led up to that moment…