VULTURES

About 1/4 of my large extended family fills every chair in my Grandma Abigail’s living room. Floor space is at a premium. I don’t know many of the cousins, 2nd cousins, even great aunts and great uncles. They haven’t called or visited my Grandma for years, nor bothered with birthday or Christmas cards. Only recently have I realized they have been biding their time waiting for this day. I would spit on them if I could.

Grandma was 92, had a slow gait, normal aches and pains that she bore with few complaints. Her mind was still sound. Last night she called me to invite me for tea with fresh baked blueberry biscuits in the morning. How, why, would I refuse? Grandma said ‘goodnite’. As she lowered her phone, I thought she said, ‘goodbye.’ In the morning I knocked on her front door but she didn’t answer. My key easily opened it. No tea was boiling, no biscuits were on the table. Upstairs I found her in bed, thin snow white hair brushed neatly over her shoulders. Her flannel nite gown demurely covered her legs to her ankles. On the unruffled blanket her hands were clasped almost as if she was praying. I closed her eyes as mine filled with tears.

She and I had discussed funeral arrangements for her when that time comes. They were simple. Grandpa had passed 15 years ago and she wanted to be near him. I felt a warmth imagining them back together for eternity.

Today that vision is clouded by too many greedy people, sitting in the parlor, dining room, some holding lists in their claws of what they intend to get. My great-uncle Bob was born when my grandma was 16. She claims she reared him well, but he didn’t learn. He sits at the end of the dining room table, fiddling with the gavel he uses at the Elks’ meetings. He bangs it on the wooden block and becomes too authoritative, extremely obnoxious and insincere. His voice is gravelly.

He begins. ‘Dear Family, this is a sad time for all of us. Abigail has passed and will be sadly missed.’ I keep quiet and cringe. ‘Her time with us was long. She knew, was ready and chose her own time. I don’t have to tell you but will. I am the estate Trustee. This house is to be sold with the price, above closing fees, taxes, attorneys, Trustee fees, going to the Lutheran Church of Our Lord. That has been designated in Abigail’s will. There are some stocks to be sold to cover funeral arrangements, any debts I find, attorney fees. I don’t think any of us will have to put our hands in our pockets.

Sweet, dear Abigail, who I loved since I was a child, is gone. I have not yet found any written instructions of who gets her personal possessions. However, since I am at that point, as family elder and trustee, my wife and I would like to have for our home in Michigan this beautiful dining room furniture. Abigail knew I loved the softness of the Stickley’s cherry wood, the big hutch that she over-stuffed with too many worthless plates. Are there any objections?’

There is silence. Hands begin to jiggle, beg for the next item. I want to shoot these vultures. Lucy has already taken Grandma’s cameo brooch off the bedroom bureau and pinned it on her blouse. Grandma had told me it was for me. Clear red rubies circle the face. Around them perfect pearls make a lovely frame. Glenda speaks up sharply.‘Who said you could take that, Lucy? I’d like to have it. ‘Too late, Glenda. It’s mine now.’ Great Aunt Matty, who looks like she is going to join Grandma soon, raises her hand to ask for Grandma’s double strand of pearls with the opal clasp. She wants to give it to her grand- daughter a a graduation gift.

Great Uncle Bob raps for silence. ‘Quiet down, Family. This is what I suggest we do: Let’s elect a committee of five to go over your written requests and make fair decisions Abigail would have made if she had all of her marbles.

At that I boil, can keep my mouth shut no longer. With some reservations, I stand, walk to the head of the table, surprise Uncle Bob and pull the gavel out of his hand. I bang it just as loud as he has been doing. A buzz of clicking tongues circles the room. ‘Aunt Amy, Clem, Mary, George. You are the rare one as you have been kind and caring of Abigail going way, way back. The rest of you are crud under my feet. You didn’t know Grandma was alive and deserve nothing. But–I am not a trustee and have no authority. If I did, I’d throw you out of this house.’ My dander overflows. ‘Great, but not really great, Uncle Bob is Lord and Master. I have two requests. Grandma treasured her ancient photo album. She shared it with me hundreds of times and I want it. The other is that Grandma told me again, just last week, that she wants to be cremated, have a prayer and then I should put her ashes next to Grandpa and shut the door. Are there any objections?’Not a sound is made, not a hand rises. I see their selfish minds rejoicing, one less person to divide the loot.

With my shoulders drooping as low as my spirits I walk to the living room, take the photo album off the coffee table and go back to stand beside Uncle Bob.

‘Cremation will be Sunday 11 a.m. at Harrison’s Funeral Parlor, 515 Chase Ave. Burial service will be Monday at my grandpa’s grave in Heaven’s Gate Cemetery, Rte. 6 to Military Rd. 1 p.m. Ten family members attend the cremation.

I and my grandfather are the only ones to know Grandma Abigail is at peace.