I Met the Man the Day He Died

I met my Grandfather the day he died. Standing here above his casket, I have this overwhelming feeling of emptiness. I keep waiting for some response from him, but there’s no expression on his face, not even disapproval, which he was so notorious for. I can’t help but stare at his frail body, trying to memorize every part of him, every crease in his face and the shape of his hands. I don’t want to forget this moment. I can’t say I wish that we had known each other, Dale McInally wasn’t a loving man, but I wish that he could have been different. Not just for his daughters and wife, but mostly for himself.
I wish my mother could be here with me, looking down on this man and be able to forgive him somehow for what he did to her. “I’m not strong enough to face him, Sally.” She said to me this morning, “You go with Alex, but I just can’t come.”
My mother had told me stories all of my life about this man, enormous in the weight of his words but wicked on so many hidden levels. He became so detached from my family that he almost seemed a stranger that you talked about at Christmas time, mentioning him in passing but not feeling any association to them. His very name frightened my mother, and even when she wasn’t thinking of him, he was there.
I remember when I was twelve driving across country to visit my brother. Alex was twelve years older than me, and he had a family of his own, a good job, and a very nice life. My mother was obsessed with staying connected to him. It was as if she didn’t talk to him everyday, or see him several times a year, that that meant he didn’t love her, and that she wasn’t a good mother. That was her constant fear, not being a good mother. But this particular trip was different than other trips we’d made. My mother, behind the wheel of our 1978 white Cadillac was much more reserved than she usually was, she was always talking about something, it didn’t matter what it was, and she would talk about anything to prevent silence. This time it was different, she was so quiet, and it began to worry me.
“Hey Mom?” I sat up in my seat, trying not to fall asleep, “What’s up? You’re not talking, what’s wrong?”
She stared at the road like the mile up ahead was home plate; she was so focused and completely lost in herself. “Nothing sweetie, it’s nothing.”
“Well, it’s something, something’s wrong. Spit it out, you’ll feel better if you do.”
“I was just thinking about something that happened to me when I was younger, with my dad.” I thought that she would stop talking, she didn’t like to talk about the past, she didn’t want to scare me, she’d say. This time she just released it all, the entire horrible story. “I was eight, and my Dad invited some of his friends over to drink a beer, and spend time. I was home early from school and he called me into the kitchen where he and his buddies were. When I went into the kitchen, they were all sitting at the table, I didn’t want to, but one of the men pulled me over too him. He had brought his dog with him. I didn’t want to, but he made me take off my pants and underwear, and well, he and the dog just, and the other men, well they abused me, sexually I mean.”
She wasn’t crying, my mother didn’t cry easily, the color just completely drained from her face and she began to look panicked. I remember at the moment, being completely distraught by this horrible story and resenting her so much for telling me that. She never wanted to forget, it seemed. She was always dwelling on this horrible past with that horrible man and I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t just forget it. I didn’t understand why pills weren’t making the memories go away. I felt really sorry for her too.
“Oh mom, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say, I...I don’t know.”
“Well,” she shot back, “It was a long time ago.” It was then that she pulled sharply off the road and made her way to a rest stop. When she parked she bolted out of the car and around to the hood and opened it. I just sat there, I couldn’t console her and I didn’t know what to do. She would just stand there trying to push any memory of him out of her mind, while trying to make me believe that she was fixing the car, but I knew better.
I’m twenty now, but I still couldn’t tell you why she had that memory that day. It could have been a dog on the road or a book that she read, I don’t know. But these were my clues to his identity; I didn’t know him any other way but this. I was completely comfortable believing he was a horrible monster with no emotions or humility, but it wasn’t true, but it was comforting.
I lied to you though. I didn’t meet my grandfather the day he died. I met him long before that, I just didn’t tell anyone. It wasn’t until his funeral that I was forced to see him as a person, one full of flaws, who once had a heartbeat.
I was six, and I remember it like it was yesterday. I was visiting my grandmother on my father’s side Annetta, who I still regard as the most wonderful human being on the planet. She died in the early nineties of heart disease but was the most vibrant woman I have ever known. She did everything that an awesome grandmother does; she bought me candy and played with me. She wore these polyester pants with stripes down the side of them, and always a gold heart shaped locket, and she loved to show me the picture she had inside of it, it was one of me and my sister. She played golf and was on the bowling team, and she loved to cut hair. She loved to love her family, and cherished the time she spent with her grandchildren. I cried so hard the day that Annetta died, and come to think of it, so did my mother.
It was mid fall in Lowdell, the town where my grandmother lived. As we drove towards town my mother in the front seat driving relaxed and happy, sang her favorite tune along with the radio as my grandmother smiled and listened to her sing with joy. I loved the trees in the fall; I would sit back in my seat and stare out the window for hours drinking in the intoxicating colors of red and gold. It was like being wrapped up in a blanket of bronze. On this particular day, we were shopping for my father. We planned on driving to the nearest shoe store to buy him strong work boots for his birthday, and we would only be there for a few minutes. As a child, it felt like an eternity. My mother’s side of the family was known for being indecisive, and my mother, Sharon McInally Owens’s was a primary example of that. She had to look at each boot for what seemed like fifteen minutes before she decided if she liked it. After about the tenth set of boots I began to wander off slightly. I would walk up and down the aisles trying to find a boot I liked for my dad and it turned out that my mother wasn’t the only McInally there. The man was there too.
I recognized him right away, don’t ask me how. It is just one of those feelings you have, like when you know it’s going to be a bad day, or how you know when you’re going to be sick. I was terrified of him. As a child I remember him being the tallest man I had ever seen, in my memory he stood about 10 feet tall with tree trunk arms and a sour expression. I didn’t know what to say to him, so I said nothing.
“Hello Sally.” He spoke with such incredible weight and force, while looking into my eyes as if to sear my skin. I had such trouble looking at him; like his face was the sun and it hurt my eyes to stare. I quickly ran back to my mother, staying glued to her side. I never saw him again after that, until now. I never told my mother I saw him either. I was only six years old, and I was protecting her then. It was hard to not see her as anything but this fragile doll, even though she’d been through and survived so much. I just wanted to protect her from the reality that he was human.
I didn’t wear black to his funeral. I didn’t own anything black, and I wasn’t going to wear it. I wore this soft blue cashmere sweater and some brown slacks. I, of course, stood out in the congregation of people sitting in the pews, listening to their nice Catholic sermon about life being precious, how we all are God’s children and he loves us. He kept saying what a wonderful man Dale McInally was. It was the only time in my life where all my family would hop on their planes, drive in the cars, traveling across the country just to sit together to hear this incredible lie. Dale McInally didn’t believe in God. He thought he was God. He told my mother that he was God, and how he hated her and was going to kill her and their pill popping mother. It disgusted me.
I’ve stopped looking at his casket now, and have gone with Alex to my Aunt Sage’s house. She lived in this incredibly huge old house that looked like it was once owned by a movie star, or someone very glamorous. Her and her husband didn’t have a lot of money, but they spent the money to build this house anyway. In my mother’s family, it is crucial to keep up appearances and it just so happens that my Aunt Sage wanted everyone to think she was an incredibly wealthy woman when really, she was just a widow with too many botox injections and an incredible amount of debt.
These kinds of people were all that my family consisted of; fake people who only wished to remember the good. Standing over the buffet table now I wonder why I have even come here, I didn’t know the man, and now I didn’t really care to. He frightened me but I wanted him so much to be different, because I wanted a Grandpa.
“Oh Sally, you pretty little thing,” Interjected Aunt Sage “How are you?”
“Fine Aunt Sage, I’m fine. I’m actually going to be heading out pretty soon.”
“Oh well, I see. You know, I wish that I could have seen you grow up. You were such a happy child and so loving, your Uncle George loved you so much, God rest his soul. I look at you and you have so much of Dale in you.”
At this moment I was cherry with anger, you have so much of Dale in you? I didn’t want any of him in me. He was evil, he hurt people and he died sour and alone. “What?” I replied seething with disgust.
“Oh yes, you have his eyes, and his expressions. I see anger in you now that Dale was so famous for, an Irish temper. Ha ha, well—I’m going to miss him.”
My blood began to boil and my teeth were chattering, I wasn’t going to keep up appearances for this family, it wasn’t my family, these were people still connected to this nice memory of Dale like he was a hallmark card, or a teddy bear and they dismissed his volatile personality like it was an endearing trait in a child, I couldn’t do that any more.
“Aunt Sage, I don’t want you ever to say to me or anyone that you think that I am like that man.”
“Now Sally, my brother was a good man, he had a few problems with your mother but..”
“He wasn’t a good man! He wasn’t a good man. He abused my mother, my aunts and he abused my grandmother. He called them all whores and he threatened to kill them with knives. He was a child molester and he was an alcoholic. I mean he blamed my mother for my grandmother’s death, she died of liver cancer and I think regret from a life wasted with him. So don’t tell me he was a good man, because he wasn’t.”
“Now Sally, you’re just upset, you have to learn to mourn him. Don’t be like your mother and bottle all this emotion up!”
“I will mourn him Sage. He was a human being and part of me wanted to love him so much, even though he didn’t write or call or answer the hundred’s of letters I sent him. I am crying now, because I know his soul is in hell and he is going to rot there forever, and that scares me. I wish things had been different but they can’t be.”
Crying like a baby my Aunt stretched out her arms to hug me. She wrapped me in a nice soft embrace crying and not able to console how helpless I felt at this moment, “Oh Sally!”
I stood there for a moment releasing all this anguish that I felt inside onto her shoulder, but I had said my peace, and she had said hers, now it was time to go.
Alex and I are now sitting in his beat up blue convertible now. It has nice and comfortable blue seats with a radio inside playing old Dolly Parton music. I remembered how much we loved listening to Dolly when I was a kid. We would take the eight hour drive to Lowdell to visit my Anetta and we would listen to Dolly the whole way there. I had never gotten sick of it, until now.
“Do you mind if I turn off the radio Alex?’
He shifted in his seat, “Sure. I thought you liked Dolly Parton.”
‘I do, I just don’t feel like listening to her right now.”
It felt like the half an hour drive to our hotel took forever, we were so silent. I would look at the trees pass me and the cars. Sometimes I would look out the windows and see the people in their cars and imagine a life story for them, nothing too romantic but it helped to pass the time.
“Well that was a pretty good service huh? I didn’t think so many people were going to be there. But there was a really nice turn out.”
“Yeah there was.”
“Sally, what’s the matter? You’ve been silent all day, what’s bothering you so much?”
I turned in my seat to look at him; I wanted him to understand what I meant. “I just realized now, how strong mom must be. I guess I always saw her as this weak and fragile thing that wouldn’t be able to handle disappointment. I just see her really differently now, that’s all. I’ve gained a lot of respect for her today.”
“Hm, well tell her that. I know that she’d love to hear it. Tell her.”
It was about dark when we pulled into the hotel. There was just a hint of light in the sky that illuminated the street signs; it felt warm and gentle on my face like a kiss or a hug. I loved that feeling of warmth and protection; it made all the strains of the day just drift away.
My mom was watching CNN when I came into the room. We were leaving first thing in the morning so Alex had gone to get some gas. She was lying on her bed half asleep, but she didn’t look sad like I thought she would, just content and a little tired.
“Hey mom, how are you doing?” I said sitting on one corner of the bed looking at her.
“Oh ok, just watching a little CNN. I’m kind of tired; I might go to sleep soon.”
“I’d be tired too, if I spent all day watching CNN.” She laughed at my simple joke and got up and walked towards the bathroom, and then she turned to me, “So how was it? Nice?”
“Yeah nice, it was hard, but nice. It was a funeral, these things are never pleasant.”
“Yeah you’re right.” She replied.
“Mom wait. I have to tell you something, and I just want you to listen ok?”
She sat down on the bed opposite me “Alright, go on.”
“I just wanted you to know that I love you. You have to be the strongest person that I have ever met. I mean, I don’t think that I could have gone through what you have and survived it. Especially with a family like that, all living with the past. I just really admire you.
Then something really odd happened, she laughed at me. I was kind of thrown for a loop. “Honey, do you think that I did this myself? I didn’t, I had help. I still have doctors and psychiatrists helping me deal with all the shit that happened. We never do anything alone. But the only way I can gather my strength to meet the day, or rise to a challenge is because I know I have a husband who loves me and children who care about me and would do anything for me. I get my strength from you Sally. We’re all survivors; you’re a survivor, just a different kind. I know you love me. I love you too.” She leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek and walked away. She was full of surprises, my mother.
It’s been sometime now since my grandfather’s funeral. My life is a little different now; I treat it with more care I think. Every day I wake up and I think about him. Not with the same anger and resentment that I once held, but peace of mind. My mother forgave him a long time ago, she couldn’t have moved on if she didn’t. What I didn’t realize is that I hadn’t forgiven him, so the horrible ghost of him was always haunting me, and I couldn’t move on. I’ve learned to accept forgiveness now and he’s there in my memories, but he doesn’t control them. I didn’t learn that from my brother, or Aunt Sage or even my mother. My grandfather taught me that, from the lives that he tried to ruin but couldn’t touch. I spent so much time believing he was a monster; I never listened when my mother told me good stories. Stories of them fishing, or going to baseball games together and pictures of him hugging his children and not looking angry. The anger inside me was just shame that I felt for not knowing him. So it is now that I have forgiven him for his wickedness. I pray everyday that his soul might be in heaven, because I would like to meet him there. I have a lot of questions to ask him.