Prayers for Bobby - Leroy Aarons [7]
Funeral arrangements had to be made. She and Bob had no previous experience; there hadn’t been a death in the family in twenty years. They didn’t even have suitable clothes for a funeral.
Mary pulled from the yellow pages the name of Oakmont Memorial Cemetery, in nearby Lafayette. One of the employees there agreed to drive to Portland to bring Bobby’s body back. The funeral was scheduled for Friday afternoon, September 2.
They went to a local department store, Bob to pick out a white shirt, and Mary a dress, for the funeral.
On Wednesday Mary and Bob went to Oakmont, a beautiful site in the rolling hills above the small town of Lafayette, to choose a marker for Bobby’s grave.
They picked out a coffin and the marker, a bronze plate with a relief of a placid lake surrounded by mountains. They chose the Garden of Peace area for the grave site. It was on a hill, overlooking the valley and surrounded by a neatly kept lawn. That’s what he had wanted through all of this, Mary thought—a little peace.
The attendant asked if they wanted an open or closed coffin. Considering the force of the blow, he said, Bobby looked “pretty good.”
“No,” said Mary. “I don’t want to remember my son that way.” She thought with a start that she would never see Bobby to say good-bye. And yet the surreal anticipation that he would walk in at any moment haunted her all week. One night in the kitchen she was changing the bag in the trash can and felt—knew—that Bobby would come through the back door.
On Thursday, Mary’s nieces Jeanette and Debbie arrived from Portland in Debbie’s ’73 Nova rattletrap. The Nova’s narrow trunk held Bobby’s few personal effects. Mary rushed out to peer into the trunk. She felt like grabbing everything in her arms and hugging it. There wasn’t much there—some clothes, letters, gym workout gloves. But it was all of Bobby she had left.
The treasure of the lot was Bobby’s diaries. There were four books, the first two in spiral binders, the final two hardcover journals. Years before, Mary had stolen a few glimpses of early entries when Bobby had left the diary lying around. But this trove of two hundred pages of Bobby’s most intimate musings now offered both a way to commune with her dead child and a passport to his inner life. She would wait for the right moment to read them.
The funeral service was at Walnut Creek Presbyterian Church, where the Griffiths (except for Bob) had worshiped for fourteen years. Mary and Joy taught Sunday school. Bobby and Ed had been involved in youth programs. To Mary, still numb with disbelief, the once safe, familiar space seemed alien.
The chapel was crowded. In addition to family, there were Bobby’s friends from school, relatives, and even some of Bobby’s gay friends. One or two came up and shook Mary’s hand.
To Jeanette the room seemed drenched in tears. She had never seen so much emotion in one place. Everyone cried. When not weeping, they seemed to her in shock, in a trance. Nothing hurt like the loss of a young person, she thought.
A young minister, Dave Daubenspeck, who was friendly with Ed and knew Bobby slightly, gave the eulogy. He took the orthodox Presbyterian position that holds homosexuality to be a sin: out of deep frustration—disillusioned, yet feeling trapped in the gay lifestyle—Bobby had chosen to end his life. The good news was that Bobby had accepted Christ, and despite the sins of homosexuality and suicide, nothing can separate the true Christian from the love of God. Therefore, Bobby’s place in heaven was secure….
The choir sang the “Hallelujah” chorus and it was over. The pallbearers, including Ed and Mary’s brother, Warren, gently and solemnly did their task.
At the cemetery, Jeanette watched one of the mourners throw a shovelful of dirt on Bobby’s coffin. She heard the earth hit the coffin, and a vein of grief opened. She found herself crying hysterically.
There was a small reception afterward at the home of Mary’s sister Noma, in nearby