C.C. Pays Her Last Respects  "Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion." Truvy, Steel Magnolias

"The Three" are the first to arrive: Stella, Miss Bonnie, and Miss Imo. They are three matriarchs in the county, and when they are on a mission it's best to stay out of their way.  We all watch as they bring in pots and dishes and baskets. I help by putting pieces of masking tape on the bottom or sides of their dishes and writing their names on the tape.
 

"Now you make sure that I get this Corning ware dish back. It's my best one. It don't have nary a scratch on it," Miss Bonnie says.
 

Stella points out that she brought fried chicken. When she lifts the lid from her container, we can smell it, and our stomachs start to growl.
 

Not to be outdone, Miss Imo shows off her pecan pie and reminds us all, "It's the best in the county."
 

They circulate the room, hugging all of us at least once. For a few minutes, the chorus of "I'm so sorry" and "I know you're going to miss him" fills the small room. After they realize they've hugged everyone, they head to the small stand with the registry and sign their names as the first guests.
 

Stella is proud, "Lookee there, we're the first ones to get here."
 

And in truth, they did arrive in record time. Uncle Gene only died last night. We didn't discover him until nearly midnight. The telephone wires in the county must have been busy this morning.
 

We thank them over and over for the food and help them back into their car. Of the three, only Miss Bonnie drives now, since they're all in their 70s or 80s.  Nobody is really sure of their ages, and nobody dares ask. The others help her navigate her way out of the yard. The dust billows behind them as we wave from the safety of the porch.
 

As soon as they're out of sight, we all run to the kitchen to see what they've brought. Butterbeans, collards, cornbread, chicken and rice, snap beans, creamed corn, ham, dumplings, tomatoes, okra, sweet potatoes, biscuits, pound cake, and banana pudding are all discovered as we plunder through the pots and containers.
 

Before we have a chance to do more than appreciate the bounty, we hear footsteps on the porch again. After a brief knock, the door opens and the ladies from the Baptist Church pour into the tiny living room in the trailer, making it seem even smaller.
 

There is another flurry of hugs and "I'm so sorrys." They finally make their way to the kitchen, loaded with bags. They start pulling out stacks of paper plates, plastic forks and spoons, napkins, garbage bags, and Charmin. Cindy, my cousin, and I exchange glances. My thoughts echo hers, "Thank God they brought plates. Now we can eat!"
 

The church ladies bustle around the kitchen, cleaning and tidying. While they're doing their thing, other people arrive, all bearing food of some kind. Before long, there isn't a spare inch of counter space in the kitchen. The Baptist ladies and other neighbors are all chattering and exchanging gossip as they work. Cindy and I exchange glances again and retreat to the front porch swing to wait until the crowd decides they've comforted us enough and they can leave.
 

We're soon joined by the other cousins.  The old cat, C.C., makes her way up the porch steps. When she finally gets to the top, we take turns stroking her short mottled gray hair. Her name is officially Crippled Cat. We found her at a dumpster when she was a kitten. Someone had thrown her away with the garbage because one of her paws bent underneath and was malformed. I brought her home, and though she limps, she's a loving cat. At this moment, she comforts us, and she isn't even aware of it.
 

We're all still in shock, but trying to deal with it. We're in that surreal state of being. Things are far from normal, and we're searching for some small thing that we can latch onto: some small thing that will make the world right again.
 

It started last night, when someone pounded on my front door. "God, Lori girl, open the door! It's about Eugene.  Oh, my God, Oh, my God!" Johnny ran out first to see what the commotion was. I put on my shoes and followed him into the yard, the cool night air stinging my cheeks. I ran through the dark patch of woods between my house and Uncle Gene's. It seemed to take forever, with bushes slapping at me, trying to stop me. I finally broke through to the dirt road and stumbled up Uncle Gene's lawn. When I got there, Johnny stopped me on the porch.
 

"Don't go in there," he placed a hand against my arm. I could see the tears in his eyes.
 

"Why?" I tried half-heartedly to move toward the door.
 

"He's dead, Lori. We're sure. He's leaned back in his kitchen chair, and his face is blue. He's been dead for a couple of hours at least. He's even cold. He must have had a heart attack. It had to have happened fast because his supper's still sitting there. And the phone is right there by his hand. He didn't even have time to pick it up and call anyone."
 

"No, he can't be," I stumbled back and sat down in the swing.
 

I could hear Rabon, Uncle Gene's friend, talking on the phone with the sheriff. Rabon had tried to call Uncle Gene, as he did every night before bedtime, to check on him.  When he didn't get an answer, he came over to see if everything was all right.  It wasn't.  Rabon had seen Uncle Gene through the doorway and gone inside to find him, dead.
 

Rabon now called out to Mama, who'd been inside despite the attempts to stop her. "Willa Dean, I'm calling the sheriff. He's on his way. He'll want to know what funeral home to call."
 

"Carson-McLane," Mama answered. Johnny tried to get her to sit down. Uncle Gene was her brother. Her face was white and she was crying, but she was very calm and acting like everything was normal. I realized that the reality hadn't hit her yet.   Johnny finally got her to sit down.
 

"Mama," my voice was shaky. "Do you want me to call Aunt Louise?" Aunt Louise is one of her sisters.
 

"Yes," she finally answered.
 

I left Johnny and Rabon and Mama there to wait for the sheriff and the hearse. I headed down the dark dirt lane toward Mama's, still in shock. I finally got to her house and dialed Aunt Louise's number. Aunt Louise answered. I couldn't tell her that her brother was dead, so I just kept asking for Uncle Buster. She finally put him on the phone, and I blurted it out to him. I don't even remember the rest of the conversation, except that they were getting in the car and heading over right away, and he was going to call Aunt Vernie, the other sister, and break the news to her.
 

The rest of that night passes in a haze. I vaguely remember sitting on the porch watching the hearse pull into the yard, along with the sheriff and deputies. I remember our pastor coming out in the middle of the night to offer support. There's a blurry image of the stretcher being lifted off the wooden porch into the yard. These shadowy images all shift and enfold each other, like a thick fog. At some point I must have gone back home and collapsed for a while.
 

Now it's a new day, and nothing is the same. The man who's been my father figure for the past decade is gone. After Daddy left us, Uncle Gene was the man of the family.  He was the one who inspected my dates in high school.  It was his arm I clung to as I walked down the aisle on my wedding day.  Uncle Gene was there when my three children were born.  He was their surrogate grandfather.  And now that he's gone, I'm not sure how to react. I'm sitting on his front porch, surrounded by my cousins. I see the neighbors come and go, and I smile and act as if nothing's changed. But everything has.
 

I expect Uncle Gene to come onto his porch to talk with us. I sit and swap stories about him with the other cousins. They're surprised when I tell them that he loved to watch Beavis and Butthead on MTV. Most 70-year-old Southern men wouldn't enjoy that show, but Uncle Gene did. He had a great sense of humor.  We laugh about how he would take out his false teeth and make faces at the younger kids.
 

I smile to myself as the memories play in my mind.  On hot summer nights, I'd walk to his house and we'd sit on the porch with the radio on, tuned in to the "Braves Radio Network."
 

"What do you think about Chipper Jones?" I asked him one night.
 

"I like him purty good.  I don't know why they got that ol' Ryan Klesko though.  He thinks he's TOO good," Uncle Gene said.
 

"Well, he IS a good player, even if he is young," I argued.
 

"Well I just think he's too cocky and needs to be took down a peg or two," Uncle Gene swatted at the yellow flies that tried to swarm us in the sultry night air.
 

"You think they're gonna get the pennant this year?" I asked.
 

"Well, I think they got a good chance, if everything stays like it is now.  If Bobby Cox don't go changin' everything again.  He's got a good team now, except for Klesko, so he should just leave it alone," Uncle Gene nodded and handed me the fly swatter.  Then he stroked C.C., who'd curled up next to him on the porch swing.  The cat usually joined us on those game nights.
 

My cousins' voices break into my reverie and bring me back to the porch on this cool December morning.
 

"Hey," I say.  "Do y'all remember how he'd bring us those long sticks of candy when we were little?  He used to bring butterscotch for me."
 

"And he brought cinnamon for me," Cindy speaks up.
 

"Orange for me," Jeremy chimes in.
 

"And root beer flavor for me."  This is from Lisa, my sister.
 

We sit, picturing him in our minds as we talk.  His hair was short crew-cut gray hair and his eyes were a warm brown. His feet were usually bare and his favorite clothes were baggy pants and white t-shirts. Sometimes he would pull a plaid cotton shirt over his t-shirt, but he rarely buttoned it when he was sitting on the porch. The buttons always strained at the buttonholes because of his huge belly. He loved to eat. At most family gatherings he would fill two plates and eat to his heart's content. He enjoyed life to its fullest.
 

With our minds full of memories, we manage to make it through that day and the funeral home visitation that night. We snack on fried chicken and cornbread, joking about how much he would have enjoyed the feast.  We sustain ourselves with the good southern food and the laughter and love Uncle Gene gave us. We fortify ourselves for the funeral to be held the next day.
 

After another restless night, Lisa, Cindy, and I get up and dress in our new black dresses. The male cousins look handsome in their suits and ties. We all want to look our best for Uncle Gene. We head back to his house to make sure everything is in order. The Baptist ladies are there again, making coffee and fixing breakfast.
 

The pastor's wife hugs us. We smile and talk as we eat. We're done early and have time to kill, so we head back to the porch. The pastor's little girls are running around the yard, chasing each other. Cindy and I smile at this normalcy. It soothes us.
 

C.C. comes out of the woods across the road. She limps her way up through the dew-damp grass. The little girls spot her and run to scoop her up. Cindy and I chuckle because we can hear C.C.'s purring, even from this distance. The little girls make their way to us.
 

"What's wrong with her?" one asks as she cradles C.C.
 

I tell them the story of the crippled kitten. They ooh and aah and look at C.C. with sympathy. They finally sit with C.C. in their parents' mini-van to play with her and pet her.
 

Cindy and I smile, feeling better now. The shock of the death is starting to wear off, and we keep remembering how Uncle Gene loved to laugh. It was he who introduced us to the humor of Jerry Clower. We reminisce about those summer nights when we'd all listen to Uncle Gene's eight track tapes and laugh about the Ledbetter family. We know how he loved a good joke, and we can still hear his big belly laugh.
 

We stand to hug the pastor's wife again as she heads to her mini-van. The Baptist ladies have to get to the funeral home early because they're singing a special song. Sissy and I chose "His Eye is on the Sparrow." We want people to feel hopeful and free, as Uncle Gene would have wanted.
 

Finally all the aunts, uncles, and cousins pile into cars and begin the caravan to the funeral home. The funeral itself is a blur.
 

Aunt Rena, Uncle Gene's wife, has been brought from the nursing home, and sits in her wheelchair quietly.  She was much older than Uncle Gene, and she isn't aware of what's going on.  She doesn't even realize that her husband is dead.  To her, the funeral is no more than a family reunion.
 

I sit in the front, next to Sissy, Uncle Gene's daughter. All through the funeral, I keep folding and unfolding a Kleenex in my lap. I can't look at the closed casket. To me, that's not Uncle Gene in there. I listen to the Baptist ladies sing:
 

I smile. The song is just right, and I know Uncle Gene would have approved. Finally the memories are shared, the prayers are said, and we all stand as the coffin is carried out. All of the male cousins, so strong and handsome, line up along the casket. They lift it carefully and carry it to the door. We follow along silently. Only Sissy cries. Her husband has to help her, putting a strong arm around her and halfway carrying her out.
 

We all get back into our cars, which the funeral home people have lined up behind the hearse. Then the caravan starts its slow journey back home, past the porch, down the dirt road to the family cemetery for the graveside service. As we drive, other cars pull over, in respect to the deceased. I think about this custom and realize that I like it. I wonder if people in other parts of the country handle funerals like we do. I wonder if they show compassion and care for the family as we do in the south.
 

We finally reach Uncle Gene's, and the funeral home directors park all the cars in his yard. Thank goodness he has a huge yard. We have to walk from there to the cemetery, just a short walk down the dirt road. Our high heels sink into the sand, but we don't stumble. We hold each other's hands and keep walking.
 

We finally all crowd under the green tents. We let the older aunts and uncles sit in the chairs. All of us cousins line up on the back, arms around each other. The scent of the flowers teases our noses. We have already examined each arrangement to see who sent them. The casket is kept closed, at Sissy's request.
 

We stand, uncomfortably, on the artificial turf that's spread around the deep hole in the ground. We can smell the fresh dirt that's piled behind the preachers. The preacher reminisces about Uncle Gene again and about his wonderful sense of humor. We all smile, lost in our special memories of him.
 

As the preacher drones on, I try to adjust the waistband of my pantyhose. I despise pantyhose, but for Uncle Gene, I've worn them. I see the male cousins fiddling with their ties. We're all anxious for the funeral to be over so that we can feel relieved of the tension and stress we've felt the past two days. I realize that we're all building toward something, even though I'm not sure what. I just know that the relief is coming.
 

That's when it happens.
 

I see a small, limping movement out of the corner of my eye. As I watch, C.C. makes her slow, painful way toward the grave. She crawls over the older graves. Then she threads her way through the crowd of neighbors and friends and Baptist ladies. I glance at Jeremy and Keith, who also see C.C. Cindy squeezes my hand and nods toward the small gray cat. I see Keith's eyes start to twinkle, and I try to hide a smile. It seems appropriate that C.C. has chosen to attend the funeral and pay her respects. After all, she's family too and was Uncle Gene's companion.
 

Jeremy lifts a hand to his face to hide his smile as he watches C.C. She brushes against some of the flowers, and one of the arrangements wobbles precariously. I pray that it doesn't fall over. As she moves on, it steadies, and I start to breathe again. As we watch, she walks right up to the casket, brushing against the metal bars that hold it up. For a moment, we all hold our breath as she teeters on the edge of the grave, almost plunging into the hole. When she finally regains her balance, our collective sigh is audible, and our mothers turn to glare at us.
 

Our eyes are now fixed on C.C., and we're stifling giggles and laughter as she sits in the middle of the rough green Astroturf to bathe herself, carefully washing her crippled paw with her rough sandpaper tongue.
 She finishes her grooming and walks to the other end of the casket, stopping to sniff a flower arrangement there. The pollen makes her sneeze, and I hear a soft chuckle from one of the cousins. C.C. continues her way around the casket. She reaches the edge of the Astroturf and stops to sharpen her claws on it, a harsh, scratching sound. A giggle escapes from me, and the mothers in the front row turn to glare again. Their concentration is fully on the pastor, and I cannot figure out how they've missed C.C.'s cat antics.
 

By this time, all of us cousins want to laugh, and we turn away, our shoulders shaking silently. We can't look at each other, for fear of losing control and having the laughter defeat us. The preachers drone on through the last prayer. When "Amen" is finally said, I look at Keith, whose blue eyes are twinkling brighter than ever. He can't contain it any longer and starts to laugh. The rest of us join in. Our chorus of laughter fills the air as we stand around the grave, holding onto each other, happy tears streaming down our faces. Everyone else looks at us as if we're crazy, and our mothers glare at us again. We can't even stop laughing to explain about C.C. We just keep laughing, the tension finally broken.
 

We scoop C.C. up and follow the crowd back up the dirt lane. We're all smiling and joking now, and talking about how much Uncle Gene would have appreciate the hilarity of the small gray cat who went to his funeral. When we get back to the porch, the pastor's daughters say, "Oh, there you are," and pounce on C.C. again. The pastor's wife comes out to talk to us, her face a bright red as she blushes.
 

"I'm so sorry," she says. "My girls had that cat in our van, and when we got to the funeral home earlier, the cat was in there! I didn't know it until we were already at Carson McLane, so I just locked her in the van until it was over and then brought her back with us."
 

We all look at each other and burst into laughter again, wondering if C.C. is the only cat to ever attend an entire funeral. We sit on the porch again, some of us in the swing, other cousins lined up along the edge, legs dangling off, and we continue to laugh. Things are finally getting back to normal. We stroke C.C. and sneak pieces of ham and chicken to her, as a thank you for the comfort she's given us. We can hear Uncle Gene's big belly laugh once more as we sit on his porch and appreciate the cat who paid her last respects.