Howling at the Moon

Jenner and his brother Tim laughed like hell at their father’s funeral after cousin Hardy’s wife forgot about her toothy one year-old with the orange Kool-Aid moustache. “JESUS CHRIST, HARDY . . . THE BABY!” Glenda Jenner shrieked when she realized grimy, little Wendell had been strapped in his car seat for an hour while she flitted about St. Mary’s Catholic Church, minding everyone else’s business. It was like watching a car wreck. Glenda sprinted up the aisle, a siren of a scream trailing behind, while the new widow, Eleanor Jenner, stared at the carpeted floor, her eyes dark and empty, her grip so tight on her eldest son’s arm it made him wince. Then Tim laughed aloud and doubled over, and Jenner lost it. Their mother, an austere Methodist who had married a life- long Catholic, was already palpably uneasy amidst the idolatry of St. Mary’s, appraising the statuary with an expression of envy and suspicion that turned murderous as Tim and Jenner struggled to stop laughing. She glared ferociously at them and then marched down the aisle alone; head high, face pointed at the handsome priest behind the pulpit as if daring him to laugh along with her sons.

Tim laughed like hell until very near the end of the funeral, nearly choking on the last of the cherry cough drops his mother thrust at him during the service. When his brother began to sputter and turn purple Jenner wrestled him to his feet and performed a Heimlich maneuver that rocketed the lozenge out of Tim’s mouth. From the pulpit, Knights of Columbus President Ad Barlean stopped reading a eulogy more reminiscent of a grocery list than a memorial, his eyes following the flight of the cough drop, which hit and stuck on the left breast of the Virgin Mary statue, giving her a gigantic, ruby-red nipple. That was it for Tim. He fell off the pew, howling, and as if a pebble had been tossed into a still pond, ripples of laughter spread outward until everyone save Jenner’s mother was caught up in it. After the laughter subsided Ad Barlean told stories about Herb Jenner that his wife and sons had never heard. And then a couple of old buddies trudged to the pulpit and told a few more. At the end no one was laughing, not even Tim who remained at the gravesite long after the others were gone.

That night the sound of a dog barking awakened Jenner. He was back in the room once shared with his brother, moonlight pouring through the open window. The room seemed eerily small and the smells and creaks of the house uncomfortably familiar. The other twin bed was empty, the covers thrown back, the pillow at the foot of the bed. Jenner tiptoed to the open window, then clambered through it and onto the porch roof where Tim sat in his underwear, arms wrapped around his knees. The moon was full that summer night, illuminating the neatly trimmed lawns below in a cool, blue light. A soft breeze occasionally lifted the branches of the birch- willows lining the street, playing a rustling lilt as it fluted through the leaves. The distant barking sounded again, this time answered by a low, baleful howl. Jenner listened carefully, trying to locate the sounds. The dog was close, no more than a block away, but the answering call seemed closer. The dog sounded again, deeper and more insistent, his bark followed by a faraway, angry voice. And then the answering howl became suddenly louder and Jenner knew that it came from his brother. “OW-OOOOOOH!” Tim howled, pointing his face at the white, nickel moon. “OW-OOOOOOH!”

Less than a month later he was dead.