Neal Pollack

They held her wake at Zefran’s Funeral Home on Damen and 22nd Street. Masses of people came, including cousins I didn'’t know I had. Though I loved my aunt, especially the frijoles she used to leave me, at the wake I felt no need to cry. Mourners placed flowers on her chest, blessings delivered to her open casket. At one point a boy standing next to me, a boy that had been introduced to me as my cousin, began to cry. He turned and gave me a hug. I wasn'’t sure what to do. So I patted his back. “I know,” I said to him. “She was a good woman.” The kid raised his head and looked at me like I was at the wrong wake. Then he turned and walked away.

After the viewing we packed into cars and lined up for the funeral. The procession was too long for our family. My uncle and his daughters rode behind the hearse with my father in his black windowless work van. A few cars back, Maximillian and I rode alone in his Chevy Celebrity.

We were silent as we drove down Pershing Road. Maximillian had placed our orange FUNERAL sticker on the top passenger side of the windshield and for me it was like a sunscreen even though the day was overcast. The blinkers of the Celebrity matched our speed, the tick-over lagging as we braked, then racing when we sped to catch the car in front.

At Oak Park Avenue we slowed for a red light. Our blinkers were on. Our orange sticker displayed. We followed the car in front of us into the intersection. Suddenly a red pickup took off from the crosswalk. The pickup broke through the procession just in front of us, then continued south down Oak Park. It was a short pause, but long enough for me to consider what an asshole the pickup driver was for cutting off the procession. We were on our way to a funeral. I had that much in my head when Max threw the Celebrity into such a sharp left hand turn my temple knocked against the passenger side window.

We chased the truck for three blocks, the Celebrity’s blinkers clacking so loud they seemed about to explode right through the dash. Finally the driver of the pickup pulled to the curb.

Through the rear window of the cab I could see the man jerking around. He looked out of his mind, yelling to himself. As we pulled up behind him, his shoulder heaved and he threw the truck into park. His taillights flashed to full red. He kicked open his door.

We’d stopped in front of a bank parking lot. It was the middle of the day but the lot was empty. Black screens covered the plate glass windows as if the bank was actually closed for good. Trees lined the street. I felt a million miles from home.

The truck driver slammed his door shut as Maximillian was stepping out of the Celebrity. The truck driver yelled something. He was a big man, white, potbellied. He wore a flannel shirt. His neck seemed like one big chin and his jeans looked too tight at the waist. Each one of his steps had a little bounce to it as if he had learned to walk on his toes.

The man continued yelling as Max moved forward. Maximillian didn'’t say a word. He simply continued to close, his feet looking small, his shoulders broad, his tight waist neat with his tucked-in dress shirt. His tie had blown up around his shoulder.

As my cousin got within arm’s reach, the truck driver raised his hand and pointed to my cousin’s face. His mouth was still going. He was looking down at my cousin, a heavy mean look, eyebrows pointed in, teeth showing as he screamed. It looked like he thought Max was going to second-guess, that he was going to stop and start yelling back. Max simply kept on moving, and just as the man was ending a word, drawing his mouth shut, my cousin lit into him with a flush right hand that sent the man staggering backwards. Even in the car, over the now practically dead heartbeat of the blinkers, I heard something snap. The man fell to a seated position and Maximillian bent over him and hit him three more times, solid, deep-looking punches, to the left side of the man’s face. The man fell sideways and was out cold. His short arm flopped over his thick side and landed palm-up on the street.

Maximillian turned and started walking back to the car. His face was red now, swollen. He was crying. He looked like he wanted to yell, to scream, but couldn'’t get anything out. The Celebrity’s blinkers had stopped. The car had died. I wished we were back in the procession. I wished someone had followed us, my father, or my uncle, or Stoney. I looked in my passenger side mirror. There was nothing.

ALL HAPPY FAMILIES

BY ANDREW ERVIN

Canal & Jackson