|
Wind Chill Factor
by Jeffrey Miller We buried Paul today. He picked a lousy time to take his life—the middle of winter with the temperature and wind chill factor right around fifty or sixty below. It was so cold at St. Hyacinth’s Cemetery only the pallbearers, immediate family, and a few friends braved the cold, wind and steadily falling temperatures for the graveside services. Everyone else stayed in their cars, motors running, heaters blasting. I swore that when Paul’s wife wept over the silver casket her tears turned to ice as soon as they hit the cold surface. In a black Lincoln, myself and the other pallbearers stamped our feet and blew on our hands. It didn’t do any good, but it gave us something to do before we headed back into town. I’ve never felt cold like I did today. Sure, there was that time I went ice fishing with my old man and we sat in a freezing ice shanty on the slough south of town and I cried until he had enough and we hiked back to the car. I thought that was cold until today. Paul would have never taken his life in the summer. He would have been too busy playing softball for Flo’s Tap in the tavern league, water skiing on the Illinois River, or fishing along the shores of Lake Senachawine. And he would have never sat in the car in his garage with the motor running in spring because he would be out working in his parent’s garden every chance he got. And fall. Forget it. If it wasn’t spending his weekends watching college and NFL football he was heading off to places like Galena and St. Charles for antiquing. At least he waited until after the holidays. With Paul, timing was everything. Something he picked up as lead guitarist of our band Shippingsport Blues. In all the years, I knew him, he never was late for anything. Except, he had to pick the worst cold snap in one hundred years to die. His wife called with the news. I calmed her down as best I could. She wasn’t the one who discovered his body. She was spared that twist of fate; when Paul didn’t come home, she called her father. The first place he looked was in the garage. Found him inside the car. His family requested that I would be one of his pallbearers along with the other guys who had been in our band. He was your friend, she reminded me. The phone dropped out of my hands. Yeah, I told her when I finally regained my composure. Talk about your irony. That was one word I could never wrap my mind around: pallbearer. The origin of the word is from a pall—a heavy white cloth—which is linked symbolically to the white garments worn at a baptism. The introductory rites of a funeral ceremony are done so to signify the death and rebirth of a person during a baptism, symbolically linking these two events in a person’s life. In some funeral ceremonies, the pall is draped over the coffin, reminding one that in death and before God, one was equal. Put it all together and the term “pallbearer” is used to signify someone who “bears” the coffin which the pall covers. There was another meaning to the word—to cast a pall over something—which pretty much summed up my mood when I agreed to carry Paul to his final resting place. The last time I talked to him was a week ago when he found me at Vinnie’s, a decrepit hole-in-the-wall haunt on the east end of town where I sometimes ended up when I wanted to be alone. I thought for sure he had found out and was going to cold cock me; instead, he just wanted to talk. He talked about how he was going to go back to school and how happy he was with Missy. And I believed him. After all, he was still my friend. “You are one lucky dude,” I had said, choosing my words carefully. “You got it all.” Three days later, he was dead. At the funeral home last night, everyone talked about how great a guy Paul was in hushed voices. He wasn’t that great of a guy. He had his faults just like the rest of us. Friends who hadn’t seen him in years, even though we all lived in the same town, talked about how much they were going to miss him. When he was alive, these same people didn’t have the time of the day for him. But there they were, swapping memories, punching in digits on their phones, and promising they would stay in touch. Not everyone was so kind. Someone mentioned how his wife was stepping out on him again; said how he had bumped into Paul at JoJo’s the night he died. “He looked awful,” the person said. “Said he had a fight with Missy about something and went out for a drink. It was so awful cold that night. I probably should have given him a ride.” “His father-in-law found him slumped over in the front seat with the motor running, the garage door closed, and the windows rolled up,” another hushed voice said. “Coldest winter in fifty years,” another person said. “If you’re out in that kind of weather for any length of time, there’s not much hope.” “I don’t understand,” one of Paul’s friends from high school said. “He had a lovely, caring wife, a good job and a good home. Did you know his wife was a former Mendota Sweet Corn Festival Queen?” In the other room, Missy sat by herself on one side of the room; Paul’s family sat on the other side. “I never knew what Paul saw in her,” another hushed voice said. That was enough for me. I left the room in search of a drink. I hurried out into the freezing night and quickly slipped into a bar just down the street for a shot and a beer. I was no better. Paul and I had a falling out a while back. I accused him of sleeping with my girlfriend while I was away at college. Of course he denied it but I had a hunch he was lying. We ended up not talking to each other for almost a year. We all have our own crosses to bear; right now, mine was heavier than others. After the graveside services, most of the mourners went to a reception at his house, but I didn’t want to go. It would have been too awkward. Instead, I met up with a few friends who I hadn’t seen in ages for dinner at the Uptown, this swank eatery on First Street. A few continued those hushed conversations we had at the funeral home the night before. Some even cracked a few jokes about some stuff Paul did, like the time we all did some acid and sat on the dry bridge east of town and waved to people going to work. When I was in college, one of my favorite films was The Big Chill about a group of friends who get together after the funeral of their friend. Paul and I loved that movie. He would have approved of tonight, though if he were here, he would have been pissed that grilled swordfish was no longer on the menu. Then someone had to bring up his wife again. This person knew she slept around; heard it from her hairdresser. Paul did too when he proposed to her. He had hoped that once she met the right person, she would quit her running around and settle down. Boy, was he ever wrong about that. I motioned for another drink and was glad when someone started talking about something else besides Paul and the weather. After everyone had gone home, promising to stay in touch for the umpteenth time, I drove down First Street to Volk’s Tap. Famous for its pork tenderloin sandwiches, it was one of my favorite watering holes. It was also the only place open. There were only two other patrons inside and they sat at the far end of the bar watching a rerun of M*A*S*H. Outside the wind howled. Forecasters predicted the temperature would drop even further and that coupled with the wind chill factor, it would be seventy-below. A cold weather advisory had been issued; State Police advised motorists to stay home. I ordered a shot of Jack Daniels and stared at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I looked like shit but felt even worse. I quickly drank the shot and felt the whiskey coursing through my body, but I just couldn’t seem to warm up. Maybe if I finally drank enough on this three-day drunk of mine, it would eventually numb me. I motioned for another. Damn, it was cold today. Coldest day in my life. Ever. |
|
