Kudzu Queen

By Tamara Ducote

I’d read about Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’ famous stages of grief, but I never actually had the chance to experience them. People in my family do not die. They just get meaner and crazier as they accrue triple-digit birthdays. It is as if dementedness is the key to immortality. So my experience with death was limited to tropical fish and gerbils and houseplants, until recently.

Nobody had to tell me my boyfriend was dead. I knew it the evening he didn’t show up for our date and didn’t call. The only plausible explanation was that he must have dropped dead or gotten himself killed. This saddened me, as he had been a pretty outstanding boyfriend. However, I am aware of that immutable universal law: Shit Happens. I decided I may as well bravely get on with my life, despite my heart-rending grief.

I pondered which of my dead boyfriend’s good-looking buddies I’d date, after my boyfriend had been in the ground for a respectable amount of time. I narrowed the list down to two. Then I wondered: Exactly how long was a respectable amount of time? I decided to call my dearest friend, Slutty Cynthia, who would surely know. Cynthia is blue-blooded Old Mobile, which gives her nymphomaniacal activities a certain cachet. Cynthia’s upbringing insures that she always has the answer to any etiquette question, whether it involves sex toys or proper deportment during bondage sessions or how to behave at high tea with royalty. I rang her up and asked her.

“Omigod, honey,” Cynthia said. “I am so very sorry. What did he die of?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said, and sniffled bravely.

“Don’t worry, sugar, I’ll help you get through this. How did you find out?”

“He – he didn’t show up and he didn’t call,” I answered.

“And then?”

“That’s it. That’s the whole horrible story. He must be dead. I miss him so much. Oh, and can I borrow your black miniskirt suit for the funeral?”

In the magnolia-scented silence that wafted from Cynthia’s end of the phone line, I could sense her gathering her words carefully.

“Is it possible, honey, that…that…he might still be alive?” she asked gently. “Is it possible he just blew you off?”

“Denial is the first stage of grief,” I told her. “That must be what is causing you to be such a bitch,” and I slammed down the phone.

Having thus successfully navigated the stage of grief called Nixing Your Annoying Best Friend, I moved on to the next stage. This involved examining my good black pumps to see if they were presentable enough for a funeral (no), and seeing if I could still fit into my size six black dress (hell no). Clearly, stage three of grief would have to be a shopping trip. My boyfriend had been well known locally. Masses of humanity would surely throng to his funeral. There would probably be media in attendance. I would have to be cute.

I pondered which death rituals to observe, and I decided that sitting shivah would be cool. All I knew was that it involved pulling the window shades down and covering up the mirrors. I like the dark anyhow, so I thought I could probably sit shivah without too much trouble. I called my friend Karl, who is Jewish, to get the details. I laid out the tragic story to him, just as I had with Cynthia.

“You can’t sit shivah,” Karl explained.

“Why? Is there a law against it?” I demanded.

“First, because you’re not Jewish,” Karl said patiently. “And second, because your boyfriend probably isn’t dead. I bet he isn’t even sick. I’m guessing he hooked-up with somebody he likes better. Somebody nicer, probably.”

I slammed the phone down, thus successfully navigating that stage of grief called Nixing Another Annoying Friend.

My boyfriend’s family would surely swarm into town for the burial. I would try to be as helpful to them as I could. But no way were they going to have the wake at my house. I would have to massively clean it, and that just wasn’t going to happen. It is true that I had loved my boyfriend very much, but even love has its limits.

You have to watch out, or love can edge into codependence. In my vigilance against codependence, I also decided that no way was I going to take his cat. The SPCA has a job to do. Who am I to stand in the way of their mission?

I wondered how much bereavement time I could get off from my job. True, I wasn’t actually related to my boyfriend. But we had been dating for six months, and surely my boss would understand that is practically an eternity, for me.

And then the next morning, Lazarus-like, there he was at my work. Cheery and casual, as if it was no big deal, as if people come back from the dead every day of the week. He looked remarkably good, for having been recently dead. He did not appear to realize I had already mentally buried him and in fact had made two seasonal trips back to his grave to refresh the flowers which adorned it.

“By the way, sorry about last night,” he said casually. “I got tied up.”

I was stunned. Now I was going to have to re-orient my entire mindset. Instead of thinking of him as dead, I was going to have to figure out a way to make him temporarily wish he was.

Contact Tamara Ducote at TDDucote6@aol.com.

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