A Viking Funeral

Sunday, February, 20th, 1983. I’ll never forget that date. 

It was a little after noon. I was folding laundry while watching The Planet of the Apes on TV when the doorbell chimed. I was shocked to find two cops at my apartment door. 

One was tall and handsome, the other was older, shorter, more heavy-set.

Why were cops coming to see me? I didn’t speed, shoplift or jaywalk. The most radical periodical I read was Mad Magazine.     

“Sorry to disturb you,” said the handsome cop. “I’m Officer Jamison. We’re looking for Benjamin Brinks.”

“I’m Ben Brinks. Is something wrong?”

“Do you know Charles Easton?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” I nodded. “We’ve gone out a few times.” 

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Easton?” 

“I saw him Thursday,” I answered.

“This past Thursday?” 

“Yeah,” I said. Talking to these guys was like a phone call from my mother--nothing but questions. 

“When did you and Mr. Easton meet?”  

“I guess…about…four months ago or so. What’s all this about?”

“Mr. Brinks, are you aware that Mr. Easton committed suicide early this morning?”

The officer’s words struck me like a punch. I forgot to breathe. 

Chuck? 

Suicide? 

That made no sense. 

I shook my head. “Why would Chuck … do that?” 

“Unknown,” answered the heavy-set officer. “He didn’t leave a note. However, we wanted to talk with you because your name and number was found in Mr. Easton’s daily planner by his wife.”

His wife?

“Chuck was married?” 

“Yes,” stated the officer. “And Mrs. Easton doesn’t know who you are. She thought you might have some idea why Mr. Easton committed suicide. We’re here as a courtesy to her.” He stoically explained that Chuck had lived in the suburbs with his wife and two sons and had been found early that morning at a city park in his car, dead of asphyxiation.

“Chuck and I went out every Tuesday and Thursday night for the past few months,” I explained. “We’d both leave work early and have dinner together, go to one of the bars for a few drinks and then come back here.”

Officer Jamison pulled a notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped it open. “Mrs. Easton claims that her husband had been working late on Tuesday and Thursday evenings for the last 3 to 4 months and he never left his office downtown until midnight.”     

“Actually, he was with me those nights,” I explained. “He left here at about midnight. We always came back here because my apartment was in the city. Chuck said his townhouse was all torn up and being remodeled.” I cannot believe I fell for that.

“We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Brinks.” Officer Jamison tucked his notebook back into his pocket. “We’ll give you a call if we have any further questions. I don’t think they’ll be any more problems.”                                          

I watched out the window as the police car drove away.

Were they kidding? I thought. I knew by the feeling in the pit of my stomach, there was definitely going to be problems. 

                            **************

The night I first met Chuck was in the fall of 1982; we were at a gay bar downtown called Queenie’s. The place was packed. Thursdays were the best drag show nights. 

Everyone’s favorite drag queen, including mine, was Miss Lemon Meringue and she always drew a crowd. She was 6 feet, 3 inches tall and wore four-inch-high stiletto heels. The DJ referred to her as ‘The Largest Living Drag Queen in Captivity.’ The show was really something to see.

That Thursday night I was leaning against the wall waiting for the show to start, when someone tapped my shoulder. I turned to face a very handsome, dark-haired man in a white shirt and a blue silk tie. He was a few years older than me with just a touch of gray in his hair. I smiled.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

“Have we met?” I replied. 

“No. I’m Chuck.”     

“Well, Chuck, you have perfect timing.” I held up my empty beer bottle. “My name is Ben and I’m thirsty.”

We had a couple drinks together, watched the show and then went back to my apartment.

Over the next few months we got together a couple of times a week and, although I admit I wasn’t sure where our relationship was going--we hadn’t actually discussed that--I began to care about Chuck.

Now, suicide.

I had never known anyone who had committed suicide. The situation kept pestering me. My mind kept repeating the same question: Why would Chuck commit suicide?

Guilt crept in, hanging over me like a heavy blanket. Perhaps Chuck killed himself because he was distressed about our relationship? Maybe he felt he couldn’t face his family--or even himself--anymore? Did he commit suicide because of…me?

The day of Chuck’s funeral I called in sick to work, slept late, made a batch of brownies for breakfast and wasted the day lounging on the couch.

I couldn’t help pondering my own funeral. I wasn’t planning for anything soon, but it was inevitable.

I thought it would be best for me to have a Viking funeral.

Ever since an elementary school friend had shared his somewhat limited research on Viking society one day in the lunchroom I’d been fascinated by their funeral ritual. 

“You see,” the kid explained. “Once the Viking guy was dead, they’d put his body and all his stuff on this wooden raft, then they’d set the raft on fire and push it out to sea. Everything would burn up and sink.”

“Cool,” I had replied.

I’ve always thought that would be a great way to go. No over-priced coffin, no grave to be dug, just poof--up in smoke. 

Weeks went by. Winter slowly relinquished its frozen grip to the dampness of spring. Eight weeks after Chuck’s funeral I was still feeling guilty.

I needed a distraction. Luckily, it was Thursday – I grabbed my jacket and headed out the door for drag night at Queenie’s.

                        ******************

It was too early for the drag show, so I sat at the bar, nursing a beer and staring absently across the room when I became aware of someone taking a seat next to me.

“You look like somebody peed in your cornflakes,” said the tall, thin, blond guy as he motioned to the bartender. “Do you need another drink?”

“No, that’s okay.” I pointed to my half-full bottle of beer. “Just waiting for the drag show.”

“That show doesn’t start for another hour and a half,” the guy said. “Is it really worth waiting for?”

I nodded. “It’s a great show; Lemon Meringue is the best. She’s definitely worth the wait.”

“Okay,” said the guy. “I’m Dennis, by the way.” He extended his hand.

I shook his hand and introduced myself.

“So, Ben, for someone who claims to be waiting to enjoy a drag show, you don’t look happy,” Dennis said as the bartender served him a glass of white Zinfandel.

I shrugged. “A friend of mine, he…well, he committed suicide a few weeks ago. I can’t stop thinking about it. He was a great guy. I don’t know why he did it. The only reason I can think of is me.”

“You?” Dennis sipped his wine. “How is it your fault?” 

“The guy was married to a woman,” I explained “He was trying to live the straight life. But he also had a relationship with me. He might have felt desperate or trapped and I was oblivious to what he was going through. Maybe he couldn’t see any other way out. I could have done something to help.”

“You know,” Dennis said. “Many times over the years I’ve been accused of being a bit of a…of a high maintenance individual and I’ve had to learn that not everything that happens is about me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Have you considered that maybe this time, this situation isn’t about you, maybe it was about your friend?”

“I don’t know, it’s so weird, so totally unexpected,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Lots of things don’t make sense, Ben.” Dennis took another drink. “But life goes on. Your friend is gone; you’re still here. You need to get back to life--no matter how weird life may be. In the future remember to be prepared for the unexpected. In my experience, life usually is weird and unexpected.” He stood up. “Excuse me, I’ve got to go get ready.”

“Ready for what?” 

Dennis grinned. “The drag show,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.” 

“Lemon Meringue?” I said.

“That’s Miss Lemon Meringue.” He winked at me. “Like I said; life can be weird and unexpected.”  

                   *************************

The very next evening I was in my pajamas on my couch reading when the doorbell rang. 

Please don’t be more cops, I thought.

I put the book down and got up.     

No cops this time – it was a tired-looking woman in the green raincoat at my door.

“I’m looking for someone,” she said hesitantly. “Ben Brinks.” 

“That’s me. What’s up?” 

“I’m Megan Easton,” she replied, almost whispering. 

“Okay,” I answered.

She rubbed her hands together. “I believe you knew my husband, Chuck.”

Last night when Lemon Meringue had said; life usually is weird and unexpected, she wasn’t kidding.

                        *********************

Fifteen minutes later I sat down across the table from Mrs. Easton at the restaurant half a block from my apartment.

“Thank you for meeting me here,” said Mrs. Easton. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I didn’t feel comfortable at your place.”

“That’s okay,” I replied. Thunder rumbled outside as I pulled off my wet jacket, hanging it on the chair. 

It actually wasn’t okay. As soon as we had agreed to meet and Mrs. Easton had disappeared back down the elevator, I wanted to scream, then pack my suitcase and get out of town to one of those strange, exotic places that everyone knows the name of, but can’t find on a map, like Timbuktu or Budapest or Wisconsin.    

I looked around the restaurant. It was quiet; only four other customers.

A cute waiter stepped up. “Can I get you something?”

“Sure,” I said, pointing to Mrs. Easton’s mug. “I’ll have whatever she’s having.” 

The waiter nodded. “Small decaf, no cream, no sugar.”

I held up my hands. “No, actually, let’s change that. I’ll have a large hot chocolate with whipped cream.”                            

“Would you like nutmeg or cinnamon sprinkled on that?”

“Both,” I told him. “It’s that kind of a day.”

As the waiter left, I cleared my throat. Mrs. Easton and I looked at each other, smiled, then she glanced down at her coffee. 

Her short, brown hair was carefully combed. She wore a red sweatshirt. Her perfume was Claiborne, I believe. She had clear blue eyes. Mrs. Easton looked out the rain-soaked window pane as thunder boomed.

I decided to break the silence. “I was so sorry to learn about Chuck. You have my condolences. He was a really nice guy.”

Mrs. Easton nodded. “Thank you.” She wiped a tissue across her eyes. “I just needed to meet you.”

The waiter brought my hot chocolate. I quickly took a sip. 

“I don’t want to impose,” she continued. “But I was hoping you’d be willing to talk to me about…my husband.”

“I’m glad to help.” That was a lie, I was thinking about heading for Timbuktu again. I decided the direct approach was best. “Do you have any idea why Chuck committed suicide?”

“Not really.” Mrs. Easton shrugged. “Do you?”

I took a deep breath. “I think it was because of me.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, I think Chuck may have been distressed about the relationship with me. He must have felt miserable about what he was doing. Maybe he didn’t see any other way out.”

Mrs. Easton was quiet for a moment. “No, that couldn’t be it. Those last few months while he was…you know, with you, were the happiest I’ve seen him in years. I suppose I was just being naïve. I couldn’t understand why he was so happy when he was stuck working all that horrible overtime.” She shook her head. “You weren’t the cause of this. You made him happy.”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“It’s my fault,” she replied. “Chuck was depressed about being married to me. He had tried to talk about divorce several times. I refused to discuss it. I didn’t want to accept it.” She wiped her eyes again. “Even if he had been honest enough to tell me about his…interest in men, I would have insisted on working things out between us. I would never have agreed to a divorce.”

“That’s not an excuse for what he did,” I said.

She peeked at her watch. “I didn’t mean to take up a lot of your time. I just wanted to meet you and try to make one more connection with Chuck. I’m really having a difficult time discussing this with my family. Only a few of them know that Chuck wanted a divorce and none of them know about his relationship with you.” 

“I understand.”

“On top of that, my mother-in-law is coming over a week from Sunday.” Mrs. Easton sighed. “She thinks it’s time we cleaned out all of Chuck’s things; clothes out of the closet, shoes off the rack, books off the shelf.”                                          

“So, you’re not ready to get rid of his things?” 

“I know he’s not going to need them anymore,” she replied. “But I’m not ready to take all my husband’s belongings, stuff that I know meant something to him, and give it all to some thrift store. I just wish there was something I could do to…well, I don’t know; I guess to honor Chuck one more time.”

I sipped my hot chocolate. “How do you best remember him?”

“I’ll always remember him standing out behind our house at this big, old pond that he used to fish at almost every weekend.” She smiled. “He stocked it with fish; bass and perch, I think, all kinds of things. We even call it Chuck’s pond. Ever since he started talking about a divorce, he never went out there anymore; all the fish are gone now. I think that pond was his favorite spot.

“A pond?”

Mrs. Easton nodded. “Yes, it’s practically a small lake. We own about seven acres, it’s back on our property; very secluded, very pretty. Why?”

“I have an idea,” I said. “It might sound crazy, but it’s something I’ve always thought about. It might help you—and me too. Have you ever heard about Viking funerals?”

                          *****************

At sunset, three evenings later, Mrs. Easton, her sons and I stood in the twilight at the edge of Chuck’s pond. Tall, thick evergreens surrounded the water. A crow squawked nosily. 

Mrs. Easton held a rope attached to a narrow raft made of two-by-fours, which floated precariously before us on the water.

I had built the raft earlier in the day in their garage with the help of Chuck’s sons. Actually, after seeing my limited ability with power tools, the boys had assembled the raft by themselves while I watched.

Now the raft was loaded with Chuck’s belongings; his clothes, shoes, fishing gear, books, cassette tapes, all the material possessions that had been destined for the thrift shop.

Mrs. Easton struck a match and tossed it on to the raft. The junk mail that Chuck was still receiving caught fire almost immediately as well as a couple of his paperback novels.

She released the rope as Chuck’s sons, using their feet, pushed the raft out into the pond. The raft turned a slow circle on the water as it moved away.

A few minutes later the pile of clothes ignited with lots of smoke. Other items caught fire. Flames spread until finally even the tiny raft itself was burning.

We were all silent as the fire roared; smoke climbed into the night. The trees around the shore were illuminated with flickering orange as the raft was engulfed with flames. 

Suddenly, the burning raft crumbled and sank into the dark water with a loud, wet hiss. The smoke quickly evaporated. A few gentle waves rubbed against the shore.

I heard Chuck’s younger son whisper; “Dude, that was weird.”

Weird was putting it mildly.

                                ****************

“You know, Ben,” Mrs. Easton said a half-hour later as she walked me back to my car. “No one else in my bereavement support group has done anything like this, but like I said, I’m willing to try anything.” She tucked her hands into her jacket pockets. “I still wish I knew why Chuck did what he did.”

“We’re never going to know,” I said. “And we both need to                                                                                                                    stop blaming ourselves. Chuck made his own decision. Let’s stop feeling guilty and try to get back to living–no matter how weird and unexpected living may be.”

We wished each other luck, said good night and I got in my car and left.

                      **************************

I never saw Mrs. Easton again after that evening in 1983. 

But, just this morning, thirty-three years later, while my husband and I were sitting at the breakfast table, I came across her obituary in the paper. 

I clipped the notice out of the paper and tacked it on the refrigerator with a neon red Viking Travel Agency magnet – that seemed appropriate.

“Do we have to go to this funeral,” asked my husband when he saw the obituary later. 

“No,” I said. “I just wanted to keep it for a while.”

Seeing the obituary made me recall Lemon Meringue’s counsel; life is usually weird and unexpected. 

Looking back, I sincerely hoped that the experience back in 1983 helped Mrs. Easton eventually find some peace – I know I did once I understood that if the weirdness helps you get through the unexpected and gives you a bit of freedom, then maybe that’s okay.