Chapter Twelve

The hours and days that followed are a blur. There are scenes that are vivid still, but most are like one of those Polaroid snapshots coming into focus.

I remember sounds. The windshield wipers rubbing against the windshield as we continued on, the squeaks keeping time with my mother’s weeping. Smells. Jean-Paul’s cigarettes. He lit one after another. Textures. Nana’s velvety skin, her wet face against my shoulder when we finally made it to her place that night. Faces. Chris’s. It was all blotchy from crying, big puffy bags underneath his eyes. I remember his arms reaching out to hug me soon as he saw me. Squeezing harder when I tried to wriggle away, until I stopped. Then I hung on to him for dear life.

I got sick in the car right after Mom told us how Poppie died. An aneurysm. Blood clot in the brain.

Jean-Paul stopped the car and got out with me. He stood beside me the whole time, in the blinding storm, while I woofed my cookies.

He kept patting my back and saying, “Let it go, Julian, let it go.” I kept barfing and screaming into the wind.

He wiped my mouth with the sleeve of his coat.

The church was packed for the funeral. Everyone was there. Even Dad and Erika. Dad hugged me so hard I couldn’t breathe. No thwacking or pinching. A real hug. Everyone knew how I felt about Poppie.

“You okay, Jules?” he asked into my ear.

“No,” I said. “I’m not okay at all, Dad.”

“Your granddad was one of the good guys,” he said.

Erika was blowing her nose. “Honey, I am so sorry,” was all she said before we had to go into the church.

Nana, me, Chris, Mom and Jean-Paul sat up front.

I don’t remember the words. Just the songs. There were three. Two were taped and piped into the church. The other sung by a Barbershop quartet made up of some old railroad pals.

The first song was Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.” Poppie’s favorite of all time. He used to do a wicked imitation. Chris lost it then.

The second was called “People Get Ready.” It’s about a train that’s going to heaven, I guess. Mom cried into Jean-Paul’s shoulder.

But let me tell you, when those old guys dressed in their uniforms got up there and sang, “I’ve Been Working on The Railroad,” there wasn’t a dry eye anywhere. Except for me.

At the end of the song they played a two-minute tape recording of train whistles. I hadn’t expected that. “Poppie,” I whispered and that lump in my throat burst like it was some sort of dam holding back my tears. Nana squeezed my hand. I let her hold me while I bawled like some big baby. Those damn whistles.

Poppie heard.

I’m sure of it.