Starting from Loomis and Other Stories

The Funeral

KL 143 The Funeral No matter how long I have been away from Loomis, I still scan the obituary section of the Nichi Bei. As the firstborn in the family and the only one living reasonably close to our hometown, I am responsible for attending the funerals of my father’s former friends and acquaintances. Even though most of them are gone, it’s a habit I still have. It is customary to bring koden, or an offering of money, to the family of the deceased. Originally, this was incense money, but today it helps defray the high cost of the funeral. It is a kind of insurance policy because all the money given will eventually be returned. Of course, I don’t go to all the funerals, even though Father, as a merchant, had relationships with practically everyone in the community. The funeral record book, with the names of those who came to Father’s funeral and the amount of offering received, determines my course of action whenever there is a death in Loomis. If the offering was small, I wire a routine message of condolence. If I miss the news or learn of it later, I send a sympathy card, usually one I compose myself, along with the offering. Sometimes, depending on who has died or whether I still know any of the survivors, I add a few extra dollars to make up for my oversight and delay or for the inflation since my father’s death. If the amount the individual gave was large or if the DOI: 10.5876/9781607322542:c22 the funeral 144 offering was a funeral wreath, especially with the donor’s name in bold Chinese characters and topped with a dove in flight—also duly noted in the record book—then I am obliged to take the day off and drive the 100 miles to pay my respects to the deceased and bring the offering in person. KL When someone like Nomura-san dies, there is no question that I must quickly drive to the house, where I or someone else from the family is expected. At first it is awkward and almost painful, bowing and muttering lame words of comfort to Nomura-san’s widow and shaking hands with the boys, knowing how neglectful I have been. Then I’m inside, where the smell of vegetables cooked with mushrooms and the woody perfume of incense tell me that death has indeed preceded me. I look at the photograph placed in the center of the black lacquered shrine and I hardly recognize Nomura-san, whose face is puffy, the eyes half closed, and the mouth a thin, wavering line. KL He had always seemed old to me, but how changed he was from the cheerful man in an undershirt who used to greet us warmly whenever Father and I stopped for a visit. After seating us on nail keg stools around the round table, Nomura-san would turn up the kerosene lamp. From somewhere he would produce glasses that, again like magic, he would fill with bright red wine. “It’s good this time,” he would say, putting the burlap-covered jug under the table. “Only, let it set awhile.” Then, calling out to the kitchen, he would order his busy wife to bring “wine-food” and “some candy for the boy.” Nomura-san and Father came from the same Wakayama town in the funeral 145 Japan, so they were close countrymen in America, where neither had any relatives. But once, after an argument, Nomura-san stopped coming to our store. In fact, Father was outraged to see him entering the American grocery, and we did not go to his house for a long time. Yet whenever there was an illness in our family, Nomura-san was the first to come, bearing a live rooster or hen stuffed in a gunny sack. KL I lit the incense, waved out the flame, and planted the smoking stick in the ash-filled bronze bowl. With the juzu beads around my hands, I bowed and repeated the Buddha’s Holy Name: Namu Amida Butsu. Namu Amida Butsu. Then Nomura-san’s son Todd—whom I remembered from childhood —nervously introduced me to his wife and sisters-in-law and two solemn-faced nephews. Afterward, I was ushered into the kitchen to join other friends and relatives from out of town at supper, which had...