Burying the Hatchetts

It was the perfect day for the burial of one’s father, if there can be such a thing. The Hatchett family sat beneath a sunny sky of turquoise blue – unusual for Los Angeles in the dog days of summer. The air was alive with birdsong and the ringing of chimes hanging from the trees dotting the cemetery hillside. On the graves spun colorful pinwheels.

The fair-haired Hatchetts were thankful for the shade provided by the barrels of two enormous battleship guns which had been placed in this serviceman’s section of the park as a memorial. They made for an impressive monument.

Before the family stood the preacher Steven Hatchett had secured for the service. The pastor cut a dashing figure, calling to mind Barack Obama holding forth from the podium. It was a shame he was having such trouble with “First Corinthians 13.”

“If … I … speak with the, um, tongues … of … angels,” he stammered in sotto voice, looking from the page to the heavens, as though praying for help. It was if he’d never seen the words before in his life.

He’d finally get on a little roll, stringing together a couple of sentences, when a military jet would scream across the sky above the group. The aircraft was part of the coronation-sized service some yards from where the humble Hatchett party sat. At the first plane’s appearance, the preacher stumbled to a halt then looked up pleadingly. By the arrival of the third plane, he’d decided to simply plow on, talking right through the flyovers. The family craned forward, straining to hear. Perhaps he was just moving his lips. It was hard to tell.

The 21-gun salute sounded as he attempted to lead the group in all five verses of “Amazing Grace.” It didn’t appear he knew how to sing. In any case, the tune had never been a favorite of Steven’s father. The service Steven had arranged -- such as it was -- was for his poor father, after all. It was just as well the song died after only half a verse, drowned out by the din.

The pastor took a moment to open a bottle of water and run a hand across his forehead. Michael Hatchett used the opportunity to shoot his brother, Steven, a condemning look. Michael’s wife, who was of Japanese birth, wore a face that shouted, “Shame!” Steven’s mother directed her bewildered gaze into her lap.

Well, he’d tried, hadn’t Steven? He kicked at a dandelion below his feet in frustration. The pastor’s pedigree had seemed high enough when Steven had met him at Starbucks earlier in the week. The man had been affable, cordial and kind. In greeting Steven, he’d given him the chance to display his knowledge of the intricate handshake and hug Steven had picked up from watching BET. He’d even attended the same college as Steven, although he mentioned he’d graduated. Steven had never gotten that far.

Perhaps, though, the man had too eagerly accepted Steven’s offer of a free cup of coffee. And his insistence on working within a speaking framework of “Faith and Family” after being told Steven’s father had had little time for that first “F” probably should’ve been of concern.

“We’ll play ‘Amazing Grace’ over the room’s loudspeakers,” he said.

“But the event will be held graveside.”

The preacher was crestfallen. “Is that right?” he said. “I do so love that song.”

“Dad was more of a Sinatra kind of guy, in any case.”

“We’ll just have to do it a capella,” said the pastor.

The service limped forward after the preacher found the strength to soldier on. “What a terrific family man was … was … ”

“Albert,” Michael announced, glaring at Steven.

Steven knew that look. His brother had been giving it to him his entire life. This fiasco was Steven’s fault, alright. It was another failure in a long list of slipups and miscalculations. There was his famous swapping of electric bulbs for lighted candles upon the Christmas tree when the two were but boys.  “It’s more authentic this way,” he’d told the younger Michael. “It’s going to blow Dad’s mind when he gets home.”

It did. The blaze resulting from his scheme took out half the living room. It was little Michael who saved the rest of the house by knocking down the flames with the old fire extinguisher from the garage. He’d picked it up at a yard sale, just in case.

 There was Steven’s teenaged Hare Krishna phase, during which he shaved his head and demanded he be called “Quicksilver.”

“That’s not even a Hare Krishna-type name, “ Michael told him after studying some of the literature Steven had begun leaving about the house. He was sure Steven had chosen it simply because it sounded cool.

“Be at peace, Little One. And get thee away from my Kiss records.”

There were the adult Steven’s two failed marriages and his expensive purchase of a Blockbuster video franchise the year Netflix was born. There were his six self-published books of nearly incomprehensible poetry about – as best anyone could tell – the thought life of squirrels.

There was “Bi-Curious George,” the children’s picture book he was sure would change the world. “The copyright-infringement lawsuit alone will have you tied up in court for years,” said Michael, shaking his head.  “And these drawings are like scribblings from the bathroom wall at the Abbey.”

Talk about peaking early; it brought Steven little joy to realize the only great thing he’d ever done had happened 40 years earlier, when he’d first slipped on the Dr. Zaius jacket. It was the happiest day of his life. Michael, who was the true “Planet of the Apes” fan among the two, was struck dumb by the moment.