I sat on the couch in that Sun City ranch style and watched
the coroners wheel the inflated body to the municipal hearse on the curb. My
aunt had just passed away, a victim of inoperable ovarian cancer that had
infected every part of her body until her life was snuffed. She spent her last days in her retirement home
in a near coma. After I was made to say my final good-byes, I sat on the
davenport in the insipidly appointed living room and waited until the
declaration of death was made. Across the room my uncle moaned and began to
weep. A deep sorrow filled his lips. His quivering breath was audible from
behind his hands that covered his face.
At first, I could not muster tears. In my 9-year-old mind I
could only think about the meanness of my Aunt Irene and a large part of me was
relieved that she was gone. But when I watched my uncle’s deep grief erupt, in
a way I had never seen, I felt myself trembling with sadness and the crying
came. This period of emoting only to be countered a short time later in the
kitchen by my mother, “Well the old beast is dead.” Then, looking at me, “Why
are you crying? You didn’t like her. She was rotten to you!” My response was a
simple, “I’m sad for Uncle Loyd.” To this my mother stated, “Oh hell, he will
get over it. People die and people get over it!”
Aunt Irene was my father’s sister and I truly don’t remember
a time when I didn’t know her. She and her husband Loyd would come to Phoenix
every winter from Minnesota and spend several months in our house. My parents would
give up their bedroom in hopes of keeping them isolated. Instead, when my folks
would leave at 4:30 to get to their gig, my aunt and uncle would emerge from
the back room and take a place on the sofa in front of the main television in
our home. “Duke’s of Hazzard”? No way! Because the, “Donny and Marie Show” was
on. My aunt would chastise me, “Watch this, Danielle, you might learn
something!”
I would wait for her to drift off to sleep in her supine
position in the Lazy Boy with her head dropped forward. It was then I would
sneak past her to smuggle a pad of paper and pen from the desk so I could
doodle. I eased the drawer out. And
smack! Her unexpected hand swept around my small body and snatched the writing
tools out of my hands. Her angry glare and questioning of what I thought I was
doing made me cower and slink away. She was satisfied when I apologized through
tears.
At one point, Irene decided to take it upon herself to
detangle my unkempt hair. My mother was
frequently too depressed to acknowledge my grooming or lack there of. So, my
aunt determined she would handle things. Upon multiple unsuccessful comb
throughs, Irene was sure there was only one way to fix the ball of knots that
lay atop my neglected head. Scissors! In a furor, she wielded her body out of
her seat and went for the shears. I shrieked and ran. Outside and around the
pool she chased me, willing her massive self to inch closer to me so that she
could pin me down and crop my matted hair. My screams got my mother’s attention
and she put an end to the outlandish pursuit. My aunt was sent away to watch
reruns of the, “I Love Lucy Show” in the back bedroom. My mother began to hack
away at my hair while sobbing and damning my aunt’s as well as her own
existence. The mangy cut that remained angered my father and caused me to wear
a hat for months after the incident.
My Aunt Irene had no children and from what I remember she
had no friends. She did however have her husband; a husband who loved her
deeply. He grieved her death deeply. And no matter how I felt about her or how
badly she treated me, she was still a human who was worthy of being mourned.
Perhaps my mother was right; people die and others get over it. However, when I
think about my aunt I don’t know if my uncle ever truly, “got over it.” I
believe that his scar remained until his last breath.
