Funeral Gaiety in Pecos

 

 

On the way from Andrews to Kermit the temperature on his dash rises from 100 to 110. Coming down the sand hills the angle is right and the oil patch is crowded by flocks of bobbing pump jacks as far as the eye can see. We pass a few sink holes; die-cut in their precision. Something's being sucked from the Permian seabed. And quickly. By the time we reach Pecos, the gauge on the Impala reads 118. It's a Monday. The county buries los pobres on Mondays Oscar tells me. From this he knows which side of the cemetery his friend will lay. I wonder to myself about the roots of the word pauper.

We enter Pecos from Barstow. A billboard invites us to the 126th annual rodeo. For symmetry another warns us not to commit adultery. My companion cocks an eyebrow at me. Off to the Southwest three looming pillars meet. The white column descending from a distant cloud must be hail. I practice the word granizo. The dark blue veil is rain. la lluvia. The yellow column appears to be dust. He points toward it and says that's where the cemetery is, the back hoe at the campo santo is kicking up polvo.

The sturdy stone facade of Saint Rose of Lima is embedded in a later yellow brick addition. A giant electric rosary—the Glory Be's big clear glass bulbs and the Hail Mary's even larger green globes—is casually draped across the front. It is noticeable though it isn't on.

The hearse arrives. It is past 3. The priest isn't here yet. The dirt courtyard in front of the church fills. The heat leans on us all. I study the half concealed faces, wishing I had a white straw hat too. A bead of sweat creeps down my spine like a spider. I catch names. Agapito. Aurelio. Tiberio. A lone sister, thin with a glossy black chignon and sunglasses. Gradually a resemblance among the family forms. The men are wiry with roman noses and wreathes of gray hair encircling bald pates. Carefully trimmed mustaches. He would have been 45 in a few weeks. That damned bug everyone seems to have forgotten. Closed casket. Someone nearby asks why he won't be buried in Ojinaga with his mother. No one replies.

A few umbrellas appear, and there seems to be enough shade for everyone. The casket is taken from the Suburban with it's vinyl top and chrome landau braces. The pall bearers assemble. Friends, brothers, father and nephews. Companeros. The churchyard is crowded by now. Familiar faces appear, a few introductions are made. The wind picks up and the altar servers' dresses flap. Some words are whispered to the cross bearer and he lays the gold staff against the church and sprints to get the priest.

The man is in his 80s. He trails the altar server lost in his billowing vestments. We are the last in, a group of friends and lovers. Los conocidos. We take up the last pew: Lala, in her black jeans and black gaitor boots to my right. Oscar to my left. I remember admiring the dead man in his photo albums. Oscar is still throughout the funeral Mass. At the cemetery (or panteón as everyone here calls it), he asks to leave before the casket is lowered into the hard scrabble. The keening begins just as we reach the car. Broken by little gusts of wind, that inhuman goat-like wailing.

******

Dinner at a local restaurant. Reminiscing. Joking. A little gossip. More serious discussion with the couple who provided the flowers in their shop, the glass-doored flower case humming—cool and exotic in the raking late afternoon sun. We pass the church at dusk. The rosary is on, beads glowing behind the veil of dust.