Letters for All Occasions
by Thomas Bayne



'A good name is better than precious ointment; and the day of death than the day of one's birth.' So it is written in the book of Ecclesiastes, chapter 7.

One hundred seventy-eight.

Now, my friends, don't get me wrong.

One hundred seventy-nine.

Margaret had a wonderful life, her wonderful family is to thank for that. But what awaits for her in heaven is far more wondrous a time.

One hundred eighty.

Fannie Poplar was counting how many times the minister blinked and keeping a record in notches on her xeroxed hymn. Fannie is the six-year-old granddaughter of the late Margaret Maria Poplar. Margaret died over a month ago -- this was a memorial service arranged for and by her surviving family members, a large majority of whom were in town on this Saturday before Easter. Fannie's father Sam, Margaret's only child, observed Fannie as she notched up her hymn pamphlet, unaware of her purpose for doing so, assuming, incorrectly, that the notches had something to do with lyrics to a song. Fannie's always humming something, he thought.

One hundred eighty-six.

In the pews behind the Poplars sat the Carsons, the branches on Margaret's brother Frank's side of their tree. Aunt Harriet and Uncle Benny, their two kids, Greg and Josh. Aunt Win and Uncle Mike, their one son Mike. Uncle Joe and his daughter Kate. Uncle Ernie and his daughter Chrissy. Aunt Kathy who, lest the rest forget, traveled the farthest this year. She travels the farthest every year. An over- An over-seven hour drive from Lexington, Kentucky. And in the back, in the pews they occupy every service, sat Aunt Linda and Uncle Dan, and their daughter Ginger, who at 12, is the oldest of the Carson kids.

Ginger's hands were folded, and set on her lap in a very mature fashion. Her hair was permed and adorned with bows. She was pretending to cry, because that's what she saw the other grown-ups doing.

Outside, afterwards, the whole family posed for a photograph. It was the first time so many Poplars and Carsons had gathered in one place since Uncle Ernie and Aunt Jolene's wedding in 1992. That was certainly a much happier occasion, but what nice weather today, everyone kept pointing out. Margaret always liked sunny days. It rained the day Margaret died, and was still raining the following evening when her ashes were driven up to the Poconos and scattered, but this afternoon couldn't have been nicer. Hardly a cloud in the sky.

Cheeese.

Harry thanked Melissa, the church lady, for the nice funeral service, as she handed him an enormous bouquet of flowers. A little pretty for a funeral, thought Harry, but I guess it's springtime.

Sam crammed the flowers into the backseat of the car next to Fannie. Waves were exchanged between him and the Carsons, hugs and pecks on the cheek, as Easter plans were reiterated. See you tomorrows and such.

On the way home, Sam and Catherine were mostly silent, neither one had had anything to say that shared the importance of a funeral. In the backseat, Fannie plucked petals from the giant bouquet, while playing in her head a game oldest cousin Ginger taught her.

Jesus loves me. He loves me not. Jesus loves me ...


<>


At home, over dinner, Catherine read through the cards and letters their family was given at the service. Blessings, prayers, condolences whathaveyou. She came across a nice one. She read it aloud.


Sam agreed that that was a nice letter. He asked Catherine to remind him to thank Linda tomorrow. Catherine moved on to the next envelope. Four envelopes later, she halted again.

Weird.

What? asked Sam.

Catherine began:


Catherine was confused by the identical letters, but chalked the coincidence up to Ernie probably plagiarizing Linda. Sam said that was entirely possible, Linda's always telling him what to do, and advised Catherine to eat up before the food got cold. But the real reason there were two nearly identical letters in the bunch is because they were both copied from the same source, a book.

A few years ago Margaret bought all her nieces and nephews a book on writing letters. Letters for All Occasions, it's called, and it's made up of, quote, a treasure trove of ready-to-use letters -- for ALL OCCASIONS! It was written by Dr. John Farmer, an English professor at the University of Indiana who claims to have collected and studied -- and enjoyed -- over 350,000 letters in his lifetime.

Sam doesn't recognize Dr. Farmer's book as the source of Linda and Ernie's words, because, though he too was given a copy, he never gave it a read. In fact, he doesn't even remember receiving it. Currently, Sam's Letters for All Occasions is sealed in a box in the attic.

Its inside cover reads:


Meatloaf, steamed carrots, and mashed potatoes.

The food was getting cold. So Catherine tossed the remaining stack of letters next to the giant half-plucked bouquet which was propped at the head of the table, too big to be a centerpiece, and took her first bite of the dinner the church prepared for Sam, herself, and Fannie. And also Boots their dog, who Fannie fed in secret. Between the four of them, they ate it all.

There was decaffeinated coffee for dessert and some mints wrapped in prayers. They could return the tupperware containers to the Deacon's office at tomorrow morning's service, or someone could stop by their house and pick them up on Monday. It was up to them.

It looks like we'll have to have someone stop by on Monday to pick it up, Catherine would later yell into the bedroom, after I have a chance to buy new ones.

The washing machine had melted the church's tupperware.

Don't worry about it, Sam tells her. If anyone's not going to get mad, it's the church.

She agreed and joined Sam in bed. She kicked Boots off her pillow and curled up next to her husband. He draped his arm over her for as long as he could, then rolled over, got comfortable, and fell asleep.


<>


It's 1 AM now. Boots has eaten a large portion of Grandma Margaret's memorial bouquet and it has poisoned his stomach. Boots coughs and craps and exudes all sorts of foamy purple cream. The cream is left in a trail as he stammers into the living room, not knowing what to make of his condition. This has never happened before.

Fannie sleeps on the couch. Fannie's bed hasn't been an option since the night Ginger showed her a movie about a little girl who gets turned into a vampire by old men vampires.

Sick, hacking Boots makes his way over to sleeping Fannie, and spews foam into her upturned palm. Fannie's dream of a future birthday party becomes a living room in which Boots is dying.

MMMMMMMOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!

Sam races into the living room and finds Fannie hiding under a blanket. Boots lies on his side a few feet from the couch, writhing. Catherine follows. Her slippers are on the wrong feet. She clamors for the phone. For a split second she's back in her childhood home, looking for the phone in the wrong corner of the kitchen, but she quickly snaps out of it. The 911 operator puts her in touch with the Loving Paws Pet Hospital, fifteen miles off Route 12. Sam wraps a towel around Boots's pressurized stomach, his hands recoiling slightly as they touch the jagged, fragile rib cage. Inflate deflate. Inflate deflate. Inflate deflate. He's gonna burst! Boots's hot, vomited cream stains the carpet, the kitchen floor, Sam's pajamas, the back seat of the car as it races out of the garage.

Out of their neighbrohood, onto a deserted Main St., towards Route 12.

The Poplars are hysterical as Boots's bubbly heaving becomes something drier, something hoarser. Sounds they never thought they'd hear him make. Fannie's eyes turn in on themselves, and her feet become fists as she hits them back against her seat.

Damn it, Sam, the lights are blinking! yells Catherine, scooping the air in front of her as if that will get them to the hospital faster. You don't have to stop when the lights are blinking!!!      




© 2006 Thomas Edward Bayne