Dying Unexpectedly
Why would there be a steering wheel mounted to the casket? And what does this have to do with my childhood memory? This is one of several short stories once published on Amazon Shorts until they discontinued the program.
DYING UNEXPECTEDLY
by Michael Beres
After my spouse and I enter the funeral home and sign the guest register, I see, beyond dark suits and gray hair, that the casket has a steering wheel on it. From within the casket Mr. Basine's nose is sticking out. Mr. Basine's nose is huge. Even though I haven't seen him in decades, I recognize him as soon as I see his profile, pink against the white of the lid liner. The way Mr. Basine's head tilts back on the casket pillow, the nose seems to point the way, ahead somewhere, down a road with no speed limit.
The obituary notice said Mr. Basine was ninety-one and died unexpectedly. I recall my spouse lowering the newspaper, staring at me over her reading glasses and saying, "Boy, don't they all."
"Don't they all what?" I asked.
"Don't they all die unexpectedly? Like, 'Gee, what happened? He was only ninety-one. We didn't expect him to die for cryin' out loud.'"
It is a rainy spring evening, I think of birth and regrowth as I finger away droplets that got onto my forehead during our walk from the car, holding the umbrella over us. The wet umbrella is back in a corner of the vestibule within a jigsaw of several others. The vestibule smells of disinfectant, the smell clinging to the rainwater on my face as we walk forward. Ahead, as more and more of Mr. Basine becomes visible, a summer afternoon in 1963 rushes toward me and I realize my life is there with Mr. Basine, tucked in beside him. I'm in the center of the front seat of Mr. Basine's jet-black Chrysler two-door, Jimmy to my right, Mr. Basine to my left, Eileen in the back seat. I'm being taken home where I'll live out my life and, perhaps, die unexpectedly someday.
We've just come from Memorial Swimming Pool in Calumet City, several miles north of our tiny suburb. My hair is still wet from the pool. I remember it still being wet as Mr. Basine drove us home down Burnham Avenue going seventy-five in a thirty-five, the wind from Mr. Basine's open wing window—cars had wing windows back then—hitting me in the side of the head, unplugging the ear that had gotten plugged doing cannon balls that afternoon. The smell of chlorine is in my nose and on my skin.
It was one of our seventy-five-cent days. Normally Jimmy and I would have sat at the curb in front of the pool and hitched a ride from my dad on his way home from the day shift at Inland Steel. Jimmy and I were thirteen, restless enough to convince our parents we were old enough to be on our own and that seventy-five cents was a pittance when it came to keeping us out of trouble for an entire summer afternoon. As long as we got up early and finished the chores our moms had itemized for the morning. We'd had this arrangement that whole summer: For a quarter each we take the bus ten miles up Burnham Avenue to Memorial Pool. For a quarter each we get into the pool. (Fourteen-year-olds had to pay fifty cents.) Then, instead of spending our last quarter for the bus back home, we spend it at the candy store across the street and wait at the curb for my dad, whose seniority puts him on the day shift all summer long.
Everything went fine in the morning. In our neighboring yards, Jimmy and I both dug dandelions, then mowed lawns, making our sneakers green with chlorophyll. Unfortunately, during the mowing of lawns, Mrs. Basine and my mom had gotten together and decided this time fifty cents was more than enough because for a change we didn't need all that candy because it ruined our suppers and our complexions. The beginning of the chain of events that caused all the problems wasn't the fact that we got only fifty cents that day. The beginning of the chain of events was the fact that I lost my second quarter on the bus ride. Jimmy said if he'd gotten seventy-five cents as usual he'd have given me a quarter to get into the pool. But he hadn't gotten seventy-five cents.
Jimmy and I and the one remaining quarter stood around near the pool entrance for a while. If we knew I was going to lose the quarter we could have walked to the pool. We'd considered doing this, figuring it would have taken only a couple hours. That way we would've had enough time for a quick swim and each of us would've had a quarter left for the candy store before my dad came by on his way from work. As we stood near the entrance, we conjured up plans. Maybe if Jimmy paid and kept the kid at the window occupied I could sneak in and we could keep our clothes in one change-room basket instead of two. Or maybe we could convince the kid at the window to let us both in, pull the old sob story, tell the truth about the lost quarter. Or maybe we should skip swimming and go to the candy store and spend Jimmy's remaining quarter, except that would leave us sitting on the curb for four or five hours and Jimmy was itching to swim because he was allergic to cutting the grass and going for a swim was the only relief available being there was no way to take a shower right now except in the pool shower room.
And so we began searching for another quarter. We figured the Memorial Park playground might turn up some change. Teenagers and sometimes even adults hung around and maybe some change fell out of someone's pocket. But after searching the swing and merry-go-round and monkey bar ruts, all we came up with was a penny. A couple old men sat on a park bench under a tree and we considered begging, but as we got closer we could see that their slacks had holes in them and their shirts were filthy and they were sharing a bottle from a bag. If they'd been dressed in suits and ties hanging around on a street corner waiting for a bus it would have been different. Suits and ties. Black suits. Sure, kid, here.
Middle-agers and some a bit older congregate at the front of the funeral home, some admiring floral sprays and baskets from children and grandchildren and companies who employ them. We and I angle toward the corner and pass by the flowers on our way to the casket. The place Mr. Basine worked—I remember is was called GrayBar—is not represented, maybe out of business by now, or if it is in business has long ago lost touch with him. Even though she was ten years younger, Mrs. Basine is not there, nor are Mr. Basine's siblings. Mr. Basine outlived them all and now the next two generations group at the front while the children who make up the third generation group in the back. The only person I recognize, besides Mr. Basine, is my boyhood companion Jimmy, obviously carrying the gene for Mr. Basine's nose. Jimmy briefly glances our way just before we kneel at the casket.
Mr. Basine, who I recall as being a big man, has lost a lot of weight. His arms, instead of being extended toward the steering wheel held up by the flower spray on the foot of the casket, are folded in the traditional manner. Wrinkled skin crawls on the backs of his hands. The rosary interlaced in his arthritic fingers makes me wonder if Mr. Basine found religion in the nursing home. As I recall, when the rest of the family went to Sunday Mass, Mr. Basine stayed home and worked around the house or yard. Sometimes he'd drive them to church, but he'd never go in. Not Mr. Basine. Church was too slow for him. "Nothing going on and no place to go," he once said to Mrs. Basine who shushed him. I'd gotten a ride to church with the Basines because both my mom and dad had the flu, or so they said, now that I think about it. They're dead too. Maybe at the gate St. Peter brought up the "flu" day. Who the hell knows?
Anyway, as usual, Mr. Basine drove like a bat out of hell on the way to church that Sunday. I wasn't in the front seat that time. I was smashed between Jimmy and Eileen and Patty in the back seat. Jill was in the front between her parents. She was younger than me and being that they didn't put seat belts in cars back then, I got to watch her get flung back and forth.
"Max!" shouted Mrs. Basine. "Not so fast!"
"But you're late for Mass, dear," said Mr. Basine calmly in his deep voice.
"Better late than never," screamed Mrs. Basine.
"You don't want to walk in during the sermon."
"I want to walk in alive whenever that is!"
"You will, dear."
"Drop us at the front!"
"The side door's closer."
"One little slip and we'll . . . See! Like that!"
As we slid into the final corner heading around the back of the church toward the parking lot, I was certain we'd gotten up on two wheels. It was a great ride to church that morning. The sun was shining. The roads empty because everyone else was already in their pews. Mr. Basine downshifted the automatic to low gear ahead of the corner and floored it in the curve. The Chrysler moaned and Mrs. Basine moaned. Jill was flung into Mr. Basine's arched shoulders. Patty, with Eileen's weight against hers, pressed hard into my shoulder.
"Hang on!" said Mr. Basine as he braked hard for the parking lot and rolled the Chrysler gently onto the gravel and up to the church's side entrance.
Next to me on the kneeler, my spouse leans her shoulder gently against mine. We both make the sign of the cross and pray. Well, we don't really pray. What we do is notice how Mr. Basine seems to be not quite centered in the casket. He looks like he's been shoved to the left. The steering wheel atop the spray of flowers on the foot of the casket is also positioned on the left.
As I stare at Mr. Basine, I recall that sometimes, because of Jimmy's allergies, Mr. Basine would race home on Sunday morning after dropping his family at church, cut the lawn, then race back to pick them up. Once, when Father Raphael turned to the congregation to give the final blessing, he was distracted by the sound of the Chrysler skidding to a stop near the church's side entrance. I recall Father Raphael frowning and shaking his head as the congregation made the sign of the cross.
The introductions come fast and furious once we leave the kneeler. This isn't one of those teary funerals with boxes of tissue all over the place. The guy was ninety-one when he died and instead of a funeral it's more like a reunion. Jimmy gives us a bear hug, both at the same time, and does the introductions. There are younger sisters Patty and Jill and their husbands, a cousin or two, a few grown "kids"—sibling children who already have kids of their own. Because of my vivid memories of that summer afternoon in 1963, the only introductions that stick with me are Jimmy, his sister Eileen, and Eileen's husband Larry. Eileen and her husband are a few years older than Jimmy and me. In 1963 they were seventeen while Jimmy and I were thirteen. Seventeen was old enough to work for the Calumet City Park District. When I'm introduced to Larry and I shake his hand and look into his eyes, I'm not sure he remembers the afternoon in 1963. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. I always thought of it as the day he met Eileen, the day they became sweethearts so that eventually they'd marry. They probably knew one another before that day, probably met in school, but to me, the afternoon in 1963 is when their marriage and my living to see adulthood and have aife and son set in stone.
The penny we found on the playground didn't do us any good. The kid at the window who would eventually marry Eileen, though he didn't know it yet, said if we came up with a little more he'd go to the boss and see what he could do.
"I ain't gonna go in there with no penny," said Larry. "I've only been here two weeks."
"What if we promise to pay it back next time?" asked Jimmy.
"Yeah?" said Larry. "And what if there is no next time? See that turnstile? It counts everyone who goes through. If the money doesn't match when I get off work at four, my boss'll laugh like Ernie Kovacs."
"Who?" asked Jimmy.
"Oh yeah, I guess you guys are too young. Ernie Kovacs is a TV comedian. He never laughs at his jokes. He can't laugh now even if he wanted to because he just died. That's the joke."
"What's the joke?" asked Jimmy.
"Never mind. Just try to come up with more money and I'll see what I can do."
We were defeated. We'd scoured the playground for change, gotten a lousy penny, and now an older kid was telling jokes we didn't understand. The only thing to do was widen our search. Jimmy got the idea to look in the gutters along the curb.
"Guys get out of their cars and change falls out of their pockets," said Jimmy.
"Or maybe change falls out while they're pulling out their keys."
As we searched, Jimmy stepped off the curb and had to jump back up when a cement truck roared past. "Watch where you're goin'!" he shouted, not loud enough to be heard by the driver.
The gutters were clogged with dirt in spots and Jimmy kicked at the dirt. "Too bad they don't have parking meters here like they do over in Hammond, then we'd find change."
"Maybe we should walk there."
"It's too far. By the time we got back it'd be too late to swim much and we might miss your dad."
Memorial Park took up a square block. Jimmy searched the streets on the south and west sides, I searched the east and north sides. We must have searched for at least an hour, but when we met up all we had was a ball-point pen and a leaky Zippo cigarette lighter that still worked despite being run over. Jimmy suggested trying to bribe the kid at the pool entrance with the pen and lighter but I knew it was no use. While Jimmy went back to the pool entrance to give it a try, I crossed the street and began searching the gutter on the other side.
The man who pulled up to the curb drove a blue 1960 Chevy. He wore a dark suit and a brimmed hat. Men's hats were pretty much going out of style back then and when the man called me over I wondered if he was a cop. He looked like Joe Friday's partner in Dragnet. A heavyset guy.
"Hey kid, what you lookin' for?"
"Nothin'."
"Your head's down in the gutter and you're lookin' for nothin'? You wouldn't be looking for some loose change, would you?"
"Huh?"
"Loose change. I used to do it when I was a kid. Come here. How can I talk to you if you stand back there?"
"My mom's waiting." I glanced over my shoulder toward a house.
"Your ma's not waiting. I've been watching you go up and down the street. If you're looking for change that's all right. What's the big problem admitting to it?"
"Nothin'."
"Let me see what I've got." The man lifted himself from his seat, dug into his pocket. "Hey, what do you know. Take a look." He held out his hand, motioned me toward him.
His hand was cupped and I had to move closer to see. I stayed toward the back of the car. The chrome-tipped tail fin on the Chevy poked at my elbow. 1959 Chevies had curved fins. 1960 Chevies had fins flattened in the middle. Broken bird wings. The Chevy wasn't an Impala. Biscayne. The kind of Chevy a detective would drive. Yeah, probably a detective with his detective suit and detective hat.
"All I need is a quarter. See, we came on the bus to the pool but I lost my quarter and . . ."
I jumped back when the man opened the door.
"Hey," he said. "I'm just trying to show you."
He leaned out of the car and opened his hand. It was full of change. Silver, no pennies. "See, I've got plenty of quarters. More than I need. Here, take a few quarters. Go on. Just leave me some dimes and nickels for the parking meters downtown. Come on. I've got to get going so come on already."
A tug on my sleeve. I've shaken Larry's hand longer than necessary. When I turn back to him he nods, smiling but a little confused. Eileen holds his arm. I nod toward them both and move on where I'm introduced to Patty and Jill and their husbands.
It's mostly immediate family all over the place, but as we make our way back to a sofa I recognize another kid from the old neighborhood. Tim Summers who lived on the other side of the Basines. We team up with Tim and his wife Denise, sit together on a sofa against the wall. The end table next to the sofa contains photographs from Mr. Basine's past. All of the photos have cars in them. Mr. Basine posing next to cars of various vintages. Mr. Basine from his twenties to his seventies or eighties posing with his cars. In each photo his right hand is on the driver's door handle. Mr. Basine ready for a ride, ready to get in and drive like hell.
Jimmy has broken away from the family gathered up near the casket. He stands looking down at the photographs. I stand up from the sofa and we shake hands again.
"Good to see you, Mike."
"Good to see you, Jimmy."
"Couple of wordsmiths," says Jimmy, smiling toward all of us. "Mike and I never had to say much. That's how close we were."
I nod and smile, Jimmy nods and smiles. We let go of our grip, put our hands in our pockets.
Jimmy glances toward the casket. "I inherited Dad's nose."
"I can see that. Hey, I like the steering wheel in the arrangement. Whose idea was that?"
Jimmy takes his hands from his pockets, grasps his lapels while pointing his thumbs to his chest. It is a familiar gesture. I remember in little league, Jimmy grasping his windbreaker, thumbs like single quotes enclosing the team name. 'Wrens'—we were in the minor league and the teams were named after birds. Wrens, Chicks, Robins, Orioles, Blue Jays, Sparrows. Jimmy had hit an in-the-park home run that day—all home runs in our league were in-the-park home runs because our park didn't have outfield fencing. Only a backstop and benches. Not like the baseball field at Memorial Park in Calumet City. Not like that park at all. In Memorial Park Jimmy's home run would have been an over-the-fence home run. That was the brag line Jimmy gave when he made the gesture. I recall Mr. and Mrs. Basine arrived late to the game, Mr. Basine skidding to a stop just off the road, grinding up a line of sod along the third base line. When told by the coach of Jimmy's home run, Jimmy said, "In Memorial Park it would've been an over-the-fence home run."
From the sofa, Tim asks, "Which car is the steering wheel from?"
"It's from a sixty Chrysler," says Jimmy. "I got it at that state line junkyard in North Hammond. Tons of wrecks there from the fifties and sixties. I'm surprised a collector or a restorer didn't take the wheel. For all I know maybe it was the same car. It was a black two-door like Dad's but the interior had been gutted so there was no way to tell."
I say, "Your dad sure loved his cars."
"He did," says Jimmy.
"And I remember he enjoyed driving fast."
"Yeah, he used to scare the crap out of Mom. After she died that was the family joke. Her heart couldn't take Dad's driving anymore. He drove for several years after Mom died. We tried to get him to stop when he was eighty-five but it was only when he hit eighty-seven that he gave up his keys. And that was only because he got lost coming home one day and had to call Eileen to come get him. The nursing home wasn't long after that. Once he stopped driving, he pretty much stopped taking care of himself."
I say, "Do you remember the time your dad drove us to that little league championship game in Springfield?"
"We played in a championship game?" asked Jimmy.
"Not us. The major league team in town. The Red Sox I think it was. Anyway, you remember your dad showing us how fast the Chrysler could go?"
"Yeah, I do remember. You and me in the front seat. Both of us leaning over to look at the speedometer." Jimmy glances to us and Tim and Denise on the sofa. "Dad gets that thing up over one-ten and he takes his right hand off the wheel and pulls me and Mike over so we can see. Then the car veers off onto the shoulder and into the grass and we do a couple one-eighties. Yeah, I remember. We could have been killed."
"But we weren't killed," I say.
We both nod. On the sofa, Tim and Denise nod. My spouse reaches up and gives my sleeve a tug. A secret shared. The story of a kid too naive to know at the time that the reputation of a neighbor for driving recklessly and fast has saved his life.
I can hear Jimmy shouting in the distance. "Hey, Mike! Hey, come on!"
Silver coins on the curb and in the gutter. The man had my wrist and was out of the car. He pushed me toward the open door. I remember the Chevy was running. Three pedals on the floor, stick shift on the column. Jimmy's voice coming from inside the Chevy. "Hey!" Then I realized the passenger window was open. The man had me by my shirt, crowded me inside. Another hand reaching between my legs and squeezing. The man too big to fight, no way to back out.
I can feel my spouse’s hand on my back. Jimmy looks to her, smiles, then looks toward the back of the funeral home.
"Uh-uh, people from my office. You'll stick around for a while?"
My spouse: "Sure, we'll stick around."
She walks me backward, sits me down in the sofa next to Tim who says, "So, what have you been doing with yourself, Mike?"
"I write computer manuals. You?"
We're both inside now. The man releases his grip between my legs, but grabs my shirt tighter and sits me upright. I reach out to open the passenger door but the man pulls me toward him and I can't reach the handle. I try again but the man pulls me even closer, so close I can smell him. A smell like gum chewed too long.
"Hey!" It's Jimmy. Running toward us. When the man reaches back and slams the driver's door I can hear his breathing. The Chevy's transmission grinds as he puts it into gear. But the Chevy doesn't move. Suddenly the man lets go of my shirt, shoves me toward the door where I can see Jimmy running across the park yelling, "Hey! Come on. He'll let us in! Come on, Mike!"
The Chevy did not move. Instead, the man reached across in front of me, grabbed the door handle, opened the door. "What the hell you doin' in my car, kid? I got friends at Cal City town hall so you better stay out of other peoples' cars. You hear me? Hey, kid! You hear me!"
I was out of the car slamming the door behind me by the time Jimmy ran into the street.
Jimmy followed me back as I ran to the far curb.
Before he drove away, the man shouted, "Kid! Hey, kid! Don't ever go in someone's car like that again! Now get the hell out of here!"
My spouse leans forward, looks past me. "Your store sounds really nice, Tim. We've been looking to get new window coverings, haven't we, Mike."
"Yeah."
My spouse: "We'll have to drive out to Tim's store."
"Here's my card," says Tim, handing it across.
Laughter at the front of the funeral home. Jimmy cracking jokes with people I don't know, stooping down to make steering wheel motions with his hands toward a little boy standing shyly between parents.
The park was quiet. The afternoon sun warm.
"Why'd you go and do that?"
"What?"
"Why'd you get into that guy's car?"
"I . . . I don't know. I was looking around on the other side of the street for some money and I thought I saw some on the ground next to the car and . . ."
"Well, never mind. Come on. The guy's name is Larry. He says he'll let us in. I told him who I was and he recognized the name. He says, 'Are you Eileen Basine's brother?' and I say I am and he says, 'If you call your house and your mom promises to have your dad bring the quarter before four o'clock when I get off work' . . . See, I already told him that your dad usually picks us up after five if we're out at the curb but that my dad gets home from GrayBar earlier and if he'd let me call home and talk to my mom she'd make sure my dad would come right over with the quarter. Anyway, when Larry recognized the name he remembered Eileen saying Dad loved to drive fast and I said that was right and Dad would definitely be here before four o'clock."
Five minutes later we were in the pool doing cannon balls. A couple hours later, a little before four o'clock, we saw Mr. Basine and Eileen waving to us from behind the chain-link fence on their way to the pool entrance.
Jimmy cleared pool water from his eyes, blew water from his nose. "See? It's a good thing my dad drives like hell, otherwise that kid Larry wouldn't have let us in."
A few minutes later, just after four, Mr. Basine and Eileen and Larry appeared at the fence. Mr. Basine waved us over. Jimmy and I held onto the chain-link fence and so did Mr. Basine and Eileen and Larry. I remember Larry standing near Eileen and, while Mr. Basine and Jimmy spoke, sneaking his hand close to Eileen's and touching her fingers.
"Come on," said Mr. Basine. "Your mom said you can come home with me because there's no candy store today."
"But, Dad. We were going to come home with Mike's dad."
Mr. Basine turned toward me. "He's not expecting you, is he? The arrangement, as I understand, is that he'll stop only if he sees you two sitting on the curb. Is that the arrangement, Mike?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right, get dressed." Mr. Basine looked at his watch. "Get a move on. Let's go."
Eventually we and I make our way back to the front of the funeral home for our good-byes. Eileen's husband Larry sees us, turns from a conversation going on between siblings and friends, says, "How you doin'?"
"Fine," says my spouse. "We have to be going now and wanted to say good-bye."
I say, "Do you remember when we first met?"
Larry says, "I suppose we might have seen each other when Eileen and I were dating."
"No, I mean the exact day. You worked at Memorial Swimming Pool in Calumet City. Jimmy and I were short a quarter and you let us in."
"Oh yeah. That was you. I remember." Larry reaches toward the other conversation, pulls Eileen over. "Honey. Remember that day we fell in love?"
Eileen blushes.
"I'm serious. Remember at the swimming pool when your dad brought money because the boys were short and then gave me a ride home so we could neck in the back seat?"
"We didn't neck, dear. That's a little frill he added to the story some time around our thirtieth anniversary."
"But, honey, think of it. If it hadn't been for a lost quarter . . ."
Eileen says, "Larry, you're so romantic."
Later that year, while Jimmy and I were in Mrs. Quinlin's class, the announcement came over the school PA system. JFK had been shot in Dallas. To this day, every time I see the films of the limousine speeding away, I think of Mr. Basine. Mr. Basine did not drive a convertible, but the way he drove, like a maniac, like someone's life depended on it . . .
The rain has stopped and the pavement is dry. It isn't until we're half way home that we remember we left the umbrella in the funeral home vestibule. We decide it's just an umbrella and that perhaps someone else will make use of it.
The side-airbag-disabled light on the dash comes on as my spouse leans in close. This is a different spouse from the one from years ago. I put my arm around her and think back to when cars had chrome bumpers and wing windows and front bench seats. No seat belts either so that you'd pinball back and forth if someone like Mr. Basine was at the wheel. I take the corners pretty fast turning onto our street and into our driveway. I pull up to the garage but do not reach toward the visor to push the remote. It was just beginning to rain that morning as I finished cutting the lawn and the smells from the lawn mower—butchered grass and gasoline—will have permeated the garage.
Our house has a side drive, our garage in the back away from street lights. It is very dark. My second spouse and I kiss, but instead of breaking up and going into the house, we open our mouths and taste one another. The taste is green and fresh from breath mints shared after leaving the funeral home.
THE END
DYING UNEXPECTEDLY
by Michael Beres
After my spouse and I enter the funeral home and sign the guest register, I see, beyond dark suits and gray hair, that the casket has a steering wheel on it. From within the casket Mr. Basine's nose is sticking out. Mr. Basine's nose is huge. Even though I haven't seen him in decades, I recognize him as soon as I see his profile, pink against the white of the lid liner. The way Mr. Basine's head tilts back on the casket pillow, the nose seems to point the way, ahead somewhere, down a road with no speed limit.
The obituary notice said Mr. Basine was ninety-one and died unexpectedly. I recall my spouse lowering the newspaper, staring at me over her reading glasses and saying, "Boy, don't they all."
"Don't they all what?" I asked.
"Don't they all die unexpectedly? Like, 'Gee, what happened? He was only ninety-one. We didn't expect him to die for cryin' out loud.'"
It is a rainy spring evening, I think of birth and regrowth as I finger away droplets that got onto my forehead during our walk from the car, holding the umbrella over us. The wet umbrella is back in a corner of the vestibule within a jigsaw of several others. The vestibule smells of disinfectant, the smell clinging to the rainwater on my face as we walk forward. Ahead, as more and more of Mr. Basine becomes visible, a summer afternoon in 1963 rushes toward me and I realize my life is there with Mr. Basine, tucked in beside him. I'm in the center of the front seat of Mr. Basine's jet-black Chrysler two-door, Jimmy to my right, Mr. Basine to my left, Eileen in the back seat. I'm being taken home where I'll live out my life and, perhaps, die unexpectedly someday.
We've just come from Memorial Swimming Pool in Calumet City, several miles north of our tiny suburb. My hair is still wet from the pool. I remember it still being wet as Mr. Basine drove us home down Burnham Avenue going seventy-five in a thirty-five, the wind from Mr. Basine's open wing window—cars had wing windows back then—hitting me in the side of the head, unplugging the ear that had gotten plugged doing cannon balls that afternoon. The smell of chlorine is in my nose and on my skin.
It was one of our seventy-five-cent days. Normally Jimmy and I would have sat at the curb in front of the pool and hitched a ride from my dad on his way home from the day shift at Inland Steel. Jimmy and I were thirteen, restless enough to convince our parents we were old enough to be on our own and that seventy-five cents was a pittance when it came to keeping us out of trouble for an entire summer afternoon. As long as we got up early and finished the chores our moms had itemized for the morning. We'd had this arrangement that whole summer: For a quarter each we take the bus ten miles up Burnham Avenue to Memorial Pool. For a quarter each we get into the pool. (Fourteen-year-olds had to pay fifty cents.) Then, instead of spending our last quarter for the bus back home, we spend it at the candy store across the street and wait at the curb for my dad, whose seniority puts him on the day shift all summer long.
Everything went fine in the morning. In our neighboring yards, Jimmy and I both dug dandelions, then mowed lawns, making our sneakers green with chlorophyll. Unfortunately, during the mowing of lawns, Mrs. Basine and my mom had gotten together and decided this time fifty cents was more than enough because for a change we didn't need all that candy because it ruined our suppers and our complexions. The beginning of the chain of events that caused all the problems wasn't the fact that we got only fifty cents that day. The beginning of the chain of events was the fact that I lost my second quarter on the bus ride. Jimmy said if he'd gotten seventy-five cents as usual he'd have given me a quarter to get into the pool. But he hadn't gotten seventy-five cents.
Jimmy and I and the one remaining quarter stood around near the pool entrance for a while. If we knew I was going to lose the quarter we could have walked to the pool. We'd considered doing this, figuring it would have taken only a couple hours. That way we would've had enough time for a quick swim and each of us would've had a quarter left for the candy store before my dad came by on his way from work. As we stood near the entrance, we conjured up plans. Maybe if Jimmy paid and kept the kid at the window occupied I could sneak in and we could keep our clothes in one change-room basket instead of two. Or maybe we could convince the kid at the window to let us both in, pull the old sob story, tell the truth about the lost quarter. Or maybe we should skip swimming and go to the candy store and spend Jimmy's remaining quarter, except that would leave us sitting on the curb for four or five hours and Jimmy was itching to swim because he was allergic to cutting the grass and going for a swim was the only relief available being there was no way to take a shower right now except in the pool shower room.
And so we began searching for another quarter. We figured the Memorial Park playground might turn up some change. Teenagers and sometimes even adults hung around and maybe some change fell out of someone's pocket. But after searching the swing and merry-go-round and monkey bar ruts, all we came up with was a penny. A couple old men sat on a park bench under a tree and we considered begging, but as we got closer we could see that their slacks had holes in them and their shirts were filthy and they were sharing a bottle from a bag. If they'd been dressed in suits and ties hanging around on a street corner waiting for a bus it would have been different. Suits and ties. Black suits. Sure, kid, here.
Middle-agers and some a bit older congregate at the front of the funeral home, some admiring floral sprays and baskets from children and grandchildren and companies who employ them. We and I angle toward the corner and pass by the flowers on our way to the casket. The place Mr. Basine worked—I remember is was called GrayBar—is not represented, maybe out of business by now, or if it is in business has long ago lost touch with him. Even though she was ten years younger, Mrs. Basine is not there, nor are Mr. Basine's siblings. Mr. Basine outlived them all and now the next two generations group at the front while the children who make up the third generation group in the back. The only person I recognize, besides Mr. Basine, is my boyhood companion Jimmy, obviously carrying the gene for Mr. Basine's nose. Jimmy briefly glances our way just before we kneel at the casket.
Mr. Basine, who I recall as being a big man, has lost a lot of weight. His arms, instead of being extended toward the steering wheel held up by the flower spray on the foot of the casket, are folded in the traditional manner. Wrinkled skin crawls on the backs of his hands. The rosary interlaced in his arthritic fingers makes me wonder if Mr. Basine found religion in the nursing home. As I recall, when the rest of the family went to Sunday Mass, Mr. Basine stayed home and worked around the house or yard. Sometimes he'd drive them to church, but he'd never go in. Not Mr. Basine. Church was too slow for him. "Nothing going on and no place to go," he once said to Mrs. Basine who shushed him. I'd gotten a ride to church with the Basines because both my mom and dad had the flu, or so they said, now that I think about it. They're dead too. Maybe at the gate St. Peter brought up the "flu" day. Who the hell knows?
Anyway, as usual, Mr. Basine drove like a bat out of hell on the way to church that Sunday. I wasn't in the front seat that time. I was smashed between Jimmy and Eileen and Patty in the back seat. Jill was in the front between her parents. She was younger than me and being that they didn't put seat belts in cars back then, I got to watch her get flung back and forth.
"Max!" shouted Mrs. Basine. "Not so fast!"
"But you're late for Mass, dear," said Mr. Basine calmly in his deep voice.
"Better late than never," screamed Mrs. Basine.
"You don't want to walk in during the sermon."
"I want to walk in alive whenever that is!"
"You will, dear."
"Drop us at the front!"
"The side door's closer."
"One little slip and we'll . . . See! Like that!"
As we slid into the final corner heading around the back of the church toward the parking lot, I was certain we'd gotten up on two wheels. It was a great ride to church that morning. The sun was shining. The roads empty because everyone else was already in their pews. Mr. Basine downshifted the automatic to low gear ahead of the corner and floored it in the curve. The Chrysler moaned and Mrs. Basine moaned. Jill was flung into Mr. Basine's arched shoulders. Patty, with Eileen's weight against hers, pressed hard into my shoulder.
"Hang on!" said Mr. Basine as he braked hard for the parking lot and rolled the Chrysler gently onto the gravel and up to the church's side entrance.
Next to me on the kneeler, my spouse leans her shoulder gently against mine. We both make the sign of the cross and pray. Well, we don't really pray. What we do is notice how Mr. Basine seems to be not quite centered in the casket. He looks like he's been shoved to the left. The steering wheel atop the spray of flowers on the foot of the casket is also positioned on the left.
As I stare at Mr. Basine, I recall that sometimes, because of Jimmy's allergies, Mr. Basine would race home on Sunday morning after dropping his family at church, cut the lawn, then race back to pick them up. Once, when Father Raphael turned to the congregation to give the final blessing, he was distracted by the sound of the Chrysler skidding to a stop near the church's side entrance. I recall Father Raphael frowning and shaking his head as the congregation made the sign of the cross.
The introductions come fast and furious once we leave the kneeler. This isn't one of those teary funerals with boxes of tissue all over the place. The guy was ninety-one when he died and instead of a funeral it's more like a reunion. Jimmy gives us a bear hug, both at the same time, and does the introductions. There are younger sisters Patty and Jill and their husbands, a cousin or two, a few grown "kids"—sibling children who already have kids of their own. Because of my vivid memories of that summer afternoon in 1963, the only introductions that stick with me are Jimmy, his sister Eileen, and Eileen's husband Larry. Eileen and her husband are a few years older than Jimmy and me. In 1963 they were seventeen while Jimmy and I were thirteen. Seventeen was old enough to work for the Calumet City Park District. When I'm introduced to Larry and I shake his hand and look into his eyes, I'm not sure he remembers the afternoon in 1963. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. I always thought of it as the day he met Eileen, the day they became sweethearts so that eventually they'd marry. They probably knew one another before that day, probably met in school, but to me, the afternoon in 1963 is when their marriage and my living to see adulthood and have aife and son set in stone.
The penny we found on the playground didn't do us any good. The kid at the window who would eventually marry Eileen, though he didn't know it yet, said if we came up with a little more he'd go to the boss and see what he could do.
"I ain't gonna go in there with no penny," said Larry. "I've only been here two weeks."
"What if we promise to pay it back next time?" asked Jimmy.
"Yeah?" said Larry. "And what if there is no next time? See that turnstile? It counts everyone who goes through. If the money doesn't match when I get off work at four, my boss'll laugh like Ernie Kovacs."
"Who?" asked Jimmy.
"Oh yeah, I guess you guys are too young. Ernie Kovacs is a TV comedian. He never laughs at his jokes. He can't laugh now even if he wanted to because he just died. That's the joke."
"What's the joke?" asked Jimmy.
"Never mind. Just try to come up with more money and I'll see what I can do."
We were defeated. We'd scoured the playground for change, gotten a lousy penny, and now an older kid was telling jokes we didn't understand. The only thing to do was widen our search. Jimmy got the idea to look in the gutters along the curb.
"Guys get out of their cars and change falls out of their pockets," said Jimmy.
"Or maybe change falls out while they're pulling out their keys."
As we searched, Jimmy stepped off the curb and had to jump back up when a cement truck roared past. "Watch where you're goin'!" he shouted, not loud enough to be heard by the driver.
The gutters were clogged with dirt in spots and Jimmy kicked at the dirt. "Too bad they don't have parking meters here like they do over in Hammond, then we'd find change."
"Maybe we should walk there."
"It's too far. By the time we got back it'd be too late to swim much and we might miss your dad."
Memorial Park took up a square block. Jimmy searched the streets on the south and west sides, I searched the east and north sides. We must have searched for at least an hour, but when we met up all we had was a ball-point pen and a leaky Zippo cigarette lighter that still worked despite being run over. Jimmy suggested trying to bribe the kid at the pool entrance with the pen and lighter but I knew it was no use. While Jimmy went back to the pool entrance to give it a try, I crossed the street and began searching the gutter on the other side.
The man who pulled up to the curb drove a blue 1960 Chevy. He wore a dark suit and a brimmed hat. Men's hats were pretty much going out of style back then and when the man called me over I wondered if he was a cop. He looked like Joe Friday's partner in Dragnet. A heavyset guy.
"Hey kid, what you lookin' for?"
"Nothin'."
"Your head's down in the gutter and you're lookin' for nothin'? You wouldn't be looking for some loose change, would you?"
"Huh?"
"Loose change. I used to do it when I was a kid. Come here. How can I talk to you if you stand back there?"
"My mom's waiting." I glanced over my shoulder toward a house.
"Your ma's not waiting. I've been watching you go up and down the street. If you're looking for change that's all right. What's the big problem admitting to it?"
"Nothin'."
"Let me see what I've got." The man lifted himself from his seat, dug into his pocket. "Hey, what do you know. Take a look." He held out his hand, motioned me toward him.
His hand was cupped and I had to move closer to see. I stayed toward the back of the car. The chrome-tipped tail fin on the Chevy poked at my elbow. 1959 Chevies had curved fins. 1960 Chevies had fins flattened in the middle. Broken bird wings. The Chevy wasn't an Impala. Biscayne. The kind of Chevy a detective would drive. Yeah, probably a detective with his detective suit and detective hat.
"All I need is a quarter. See, we came on the bus to the pool but I lost my quarter and . . ."
I jumped back when the man opened the door.
"Hey," he said. "I'm just trying to show you."
He leaned out of the car and opened his hand. It was full of change. Silver, no pennies. "See, I've got plenty of quarters. More than I need. Here, take a few quarters. Go on. Just leave me some dimes and nickels for the parking meters downtown. Come on. I've got to get going so come on already."
A tug on my sleeve. I've shaken Larry's hand longer than necessary. When I turn back to him he nods, smiling but a little confused. Eileen holds his arm. I nod toward them both and move on where I'm introduced to Patty and Jill and their husbands.
It's mostly immediate family all over the place, but as we make our way back to a sofa I recognize another kid from the old neighborhood. Tim Summers who lived on the other side of the Basines. We team up with Tim and his wife Denise, sit together on a sofa against the wall. The end table next to the sofa contains photographs from Mr. Basine's past. All of the photos have cars in them. Mr. Basine posing next to cars of various vintages. Mr. Basine from his twenties to his seventies or eighties posing with his cars. In each photo his right hand is on the driver's door handle. Mr. Basine ready for a ride, ready to get in and drive like hell.
Jimmy has broken away from the family gathered up near the casket. He stands looking down at the photographs. I stand up from the sofa and we shake hands again.
"Good to see you, Mike."
"Good to see you, Jimmy."
"Couple of wordsmiths," says Jimmy, smiling toward all of us. "Mike and I never had to say much. That's how close we were."
I nod and smile, Jimmy nods and smiles. We let go of our grip, put our hands in our pockets.
Jimmy glances toward the casket. "I inherited Dad's nose."
"I can see that. Hey, I like the steering wheel in the arrangement. Whose idea was that?"
Jimmy takes his hands from his pockets, grasps his lapels while pointing his thumbs to his chest. It is a familiar gesture. I remember in little league, Jimmy grasping his windbreaker, thumbs like single quotes enclosing the team name. 'Wrens'—we were in the minor league and the teams were named after birds. Wrens, Chicks, Robins, Orioles, Blue Jays, Sparrows. Jimmy had hit an in-the-park home run that day—all home runs in our league were in-the-park home runs because our park didn't have outfield fencing. Only a backstop and benches. Not like the baseball field at Memorial Park in Calumet City. Not like that park at all. In Memorial Park Jimmy's home run would have been an over-the-fence home run. That was the brag line Jimmy gave when he made the gesture. I recall Mr. and Mrs. Basine arrived late to the game, Mr. Basine skidding to a stop just off the road, grinding up a line of sod along the third base line. When told by the coach of Jimmy's home run, Jimmy said, "In Memorial Park it would've been an over-the-fence home run."
From the sofa, Tim asks, "Which car is the steering wheel from?"
"It's from a sixty Chrysler," says Jimmy. "I got it at that state line junkyard in North Hammond. Tons of wrecks there from the fifties and sixties. I'm surprised a collector or a restorer didn't take the wheel. For all I know maybe it was the same car. It was a black two-door like Dad's but the interior had been gutted so there was no way to tell."
I say, "Your dad sure loved his cars."
"He did," says Jimmy.
"And I remember he enjoyed driving fast."
"Yeah, he used to scare the crap out of Mom. After she died that was the family joke. Her heart couldn't take Dad's driving anymore. He drove for several years after Mom died. We tried to get him to stop when he was eighty-five but it was only when he hit eighty-seven that he gave up his keys. And that was only because he got lost coming home one day and had to call Eileen to come get him. The nursing home wasn't long after that. Once he stopped driving, he pretty much stopped taking care of himself."
I say, "Do you remember the time your dad drove us to that little league championship game in Springfield?"
"We played in a championship game?" asked Jimmy.
"Not us. The major league team in town. The Red Sox I think it was. Anyway, you remember your dad showing us how fast the Chrysler could go?"
"Yeah, I do remember. You and me in the front seat. Both of us leaning over to look at the speedometer." Jimmy glances to us and Tim and Denise on the sofa. "Dad gets that thing up over one-ten and he takes his right hand off the wheel and pulls me and Mike over so we can see. Then the car veers off onto the shoulder and into the grass and we do a couple one-eighties. Yeah, I remember. We could have been killed."
"But we weren't killed," I say.
We both nod. On the sofa, Tim and Denise nod. My spouse reaches up and gives my sleeve a tug. A secret shared. The story of a kid too naive to know at the time that the reputation of a neighbor for driving recklessly and fast has saved his life.
I can hear Jimmy shouting in the distance. "Hey, Mike! Hey, come on!"
Silver coins on the curb and in the gutter. The man had my wrist and was out of the car. He pushed me toward the open door. I remember the Chevy was running. Three pedals on the floor, stick shift on the column. Jimmy's voice coming from inside the Chevy. "Hey!" Then I realized the passenger window was open. The man had me by my shirt, crowded me inside. Another hand reaching between my legs and squeezing. The man too big to fight, no way to back out.
I can feel my spouse’s hand on my back. Jimmy looks to her, smiles, then looks toward the back of the funeral home.
"Uh-uh, people from my office. You'll stick around for a while?"
My spouse: "Sure, we'll stick around."
She walks me backward, sits me down in the sofa next to Tim who says, "So, what have you been doing with yourself, Mike?"
"I write computer manuals. You?"
We're both inside now. The man releases his grip between my legs, but grabs my shirt tighter and sits me upright. I reach out to open the passenger door but the man pulls me toward him and I can't reach the handle. I try again but the man pulls me even closer, so close I can smell him. A smell like gum chewed too long.
"Hey!" It's Jimmy. Running toward us. When the man reaches back and slams the driver's door I can hear his breathing. The Chevy's transmission grinds as he puts it into gear. But the Chevy doesn't move. Suddenly the man lets go of my shirt, shoves me toward the door where I can see Jimmy running across the park yelling, "Hey! Come on. He'll let us in! Come on, Mike!"
The Chevy did not move. Instead, the man reached across in front of me, grabbed the door handle, opened the door. "What the hell you doin' in my car, kid? I got friends at Cal City town hall so you better stay out of other peoples' cars. You hear me? Hey, kid! You hear me!"
I was out of the car slamming the door behind me by the time Jimmy ran into the street.
Jimmy followed me back as I ran to the far curb.
Before he drove away, the man shouted, "Kid! Hey, kid! Don't ever go in someone's car like that again! Now get the hell out of here!"
My spouse leans forward, looks past me. "Your store sounds really nice, Tim. We've been looking to get new window coverings, haven't we, Mike."
"Yeah."
My spouse: "We'll have to drive out to Tim's store."
"Here's my card," says Tim, handing it across.
Laughter at the front of the funeral home. Jimmy cracking jokes with people I don't know, stooping down to make steering wheel motions with his hands toward a little boy standing shyly between parents.
The park was quiet. The afternoon sun warm.
"Why'd you go and do that?"
"What?"
"Why'd you get into that guy's car?"
"I . . . I don't know. I was looking around on the other side of the street for some money and I thought I saw some on the ground next to the car and . . ."
"Well, never mind. Come on. The guy's name is Larry. He says he'll let us in. I told him who I was and he recognized the name. He says, 'Are you Eileen Basine's brother?' and I say I am and he says, 'If you call your house and your mom promises to have your dad bring the quarter before four o'clock when I get off work' . . . See, I already told him that your dad usually picks us up after five if we're out at the curb but that my dad gets home from GrayBar earlier and if he'd let me call home and talk to my mom she'd make sure my dad would come right over with the quarter. Anyway, when Larry recognized the name he remembered Eileen saying Dad loved to drive fast and I said that was right and Dad would definitely be here before four o'clock."
Five minutes later we were in the pool doing cannon balls. A couple hours later, a little before four o'clock, we saw Mr. Basine and Eileen waving to us from behind the chain-link fence on their way to the pool entrance.
Jimmy cleared pool water from his eyes, blew water from his nose. "See? It's a good thing my dad drives like hell, otherwise that kid Larry wouldn't have let us in."
A few minutes later, just after four, Mr. Basine and Eileen and Larry appeared at the fence. Mr. Basine waved us over. Jimmy and I held onto the chain-link fence and so did Mr. Basine and Eileen and Larry. I remember Larry standing near Eileen and, while Mr. Basine and Jimmy spoke, sneaking his hand close to Eileen's and touching her fingers.
"Come on," said Mr. Basine. "Your mom said you can come home with me because there's no candy store today."
"But, Dad. We were going to come home with Mike's dad."
Mr. Basine turned toward me. "He's not expecting you, is he? The arrangement, as I understand, is that he'll stop only if he sees you two sitting on the curb. Is that the arrangement, Mike?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right, get dressed." Mr. Basine looked at his watch. "Get a move on. Let's go."
Eventually we and I make our way back to the front of the funeral home for our good-byes. Eileen's husband Larry sees us, turns from a conversation going on between siblings and friends, says, "How you doin'?"
"Fine," says my spouse. "We have to be going now and wanted to say good-bye."
I say, "Do you remember when we first met?"
Larry says, "I suppose we might have seen each other when Eileen and I were dating."
"No, I mean the exact day. You worked at Memorial Swimming Pool in Calumet City. Jimmy and I were short a quarter and you let us in."
"Oh yeah. That was you. I remember." Larry reaches toward the other conversation, pulls Eileen over. "Honey. Remember that day we fell in love?"
Eileen blushes.
"I'm serious. Remember at the swimming pool when your dad brought money because the boys were short and then gave me a ride home so we could neck in the back seat?"
"We didn't neck, dear. That's a little frill he added to the story some time around our thirtieth anniversary."
"But, honey, think of it. If it hadn't been for a lost quarter . . ."
Eileen says, "Larry, you're so romantic."
Later that year, while Jimmy and I were in Mrs. Quinlin's class, the announcement came over the school PA system. JFK had been shot in Dallas. To this day, every time I see the films of the limousine speeding away, I think of Mr. Basine. Mr. Basine did not drive a convertible, but the way he drove, like a maniac, like someone's life depended on it . . .
The rain has stopped and the pavement is dry. It isn't until we're half way home that we remember we left the umbrella in the funeral home vestibule. We decide it's just an umbrella and that perhaps someone else will make use of it.
The side-airbag-disabled light on the dash comes on as my spouse leans in close. This is a different spouse from the one from years ago. I put my arm around her and think back to when cars had chrome bumpers and wing windows and front bench seats. No seat belts either so that you'd pinball back and forth if someone like Mr. Basine was at the wheel. I take the corners pretty fast turning onto our street and into our driveway. I pull up to the garage but do not reach toward the visor to push the remote. It was just beginning to rain that morning as I finished cutting the lawn and the smells from the lawn mower—butchered grass and gasoline—will have permeated the garage.
Our house has a side drive, our garage in the back away from street lights. It is very dark. My second spouse and I kiss, but instead of breaking up and going into the house, we open our mouths and taste one another. The taste is green and fresh from breath mints shared after leaving the funeral home.
THE END
Claim to Fame
In today's world, how far will some people go to get into the spotlight?
The Denver Boot
Family caregiver meets radio talk show junkie.