People began to arrive for the service, so the encounter with Winnie’s father and brother was, thankfully, delayed. I removed myself from the front row and found a place in the back next to an elderly woman who smelled of Ivory soap and lavender.
The service was, at first, traditional in the playing of old hymns, the reading of scripture, and a brief homily by the pastor that had to do with hope and trust in God. Then, the pastor invited people to speak about their memories of Winnie’s mother, whose name turned out to be Marjorie. I noticed that two basic categories of people came up to speak: Younger people who had been student’s in Marjorie’s Sunday School classes over the years, and female friends who wept about missing their very close friend.
At first I thought it was my imagination, but after the third or fourth woman glared at Winnie’s father after speaking, I suspected that he wasn’t the most popular member of the family in that community. I also noticed that Winnie, while on the same front row, sat a fair distance from her father and brother. Her desire to be detached from them was evident.
The pastor concluded the service and invited everyone into the fellowship hall for a lunch that had been brought in by some of the parishioners. Apparently there would be no graveside service.
I ate my share of chicken casserole and potato salad by myself, watching the people of the church express their condolences to the family. Most of the people spoke with Winnie, and only a few of the men approached her father and brother. My journalistic curiosity got the best of me, and I shored up my courage and walked over to greet the testosterone bearers of Winnie’s family.
While they both responded to my offer of a handshake, they just stared at me with stony looks as I explained who I was and how sorry I was about their loss. Once I realized that their social skills appeared to be limited to harsh stares and sour expressions, I excused myself and went to see Winnie. When I told her that I needed to head back to the airport, she followed me outside.
She thanked me over and over for coming to be with her. I started to offer my best “Aw, shucks, it weren’t nothin’,” but instead opted to kiss her again. It was even better this time than before, although I confess to opening my eyes once to be sure her father wasn’t watching from the church door again.
I promised to pick her up at the airport when she came home, and she was grateful for that. She left me with a look that reminded me that we would have to somehow deal with what had been started between us once we returned to the relative normalcy of our lives. I felt the summons of proper adulthood crashing through my self-imposed isolation.
On the plane ride back home, I thought about Winnie’s family. I kept seeing her father and brother standing side by side, and I kept thinking that someone else belonged with them. Then it hit me: Alan would fit perfectly with them, in stature and attitude, creating an unholy trinity that started to unnerve me.
Was Winnie attracted to Alan because he represented an abusive maleness that was familiar to her? Why would she want that kind of attraction?
Most disturbing of all was the thought: Why, then, would she be attracted to me?
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