Entwined

BY DR. AGONSON

The weary pallbearers marched in perfect step, the black lace of their hats wildly dancing in the pacific breeze. With somber eyes and dour, drooping lips, with faces like dead fish, they stared out upon the windswept field. Behind them the mourners walked in silence.

Inside the coffin lay the body of the late Mr. Entwine, who had, true to his name, entwined himself in the affairs of nearly half of the town. Had he been younger, or lived longer, knowing him as I did, given more time, I am sure he would have entwined the other half too.

His insertions into the lives of his neighbors, though seldom welcome, often concluded, or at least worked towards conclusions, which were benign. Those affected by Mr. Entwine were at least non-the-worse for his interference, and I would add, were often enriched by the experience. He left us, it may truly be said, as a conscientious camper leaves a campsite. His intrusions never did any harm, and, speaking for myself at least, were always a pleasure.

There was one exception of which I knew. He admitted it to me once about five years before his death. At that time, he had involved himself in a personal matter between me and a girl I was found of, and his attempts to get us together saved me from what would have been an awful match. I see her husband at times, if he is ever free of her, hunched over like a hunted animal, glancing over his shoulder in case she may be loitering nearby. It is worse when she is there: There is no end of—it’s strange to think I once found this quality in her endearing—her little touch ups to his character. Sit up straight, dear. Wouldn’t you prefer a salad, dear? No, dear, you don’t want to see that movie, not good for you.

As I was saying, there was one exception to his nearly fantastic life of blundering interference, that is, one exception to the benign and often humorous ends he met. He was like a character in a Wodehouse novel, an Uncle Fred flitting by in all other instances, but I suppose Wodehouse left out certain realities.

He stopped once, it was a day windy like his funeral, and just stared out at the beach. It was unlike him, so quiet, so still. I felt I knew him well enough—he had proposed to my mother at this point in our story, but that’s neither here nor there; I suppose he had a lucky escape too—and I asked him.

In his mind, he had caused her death, a suicide. Young girl, nice. He was trying to help her, he was always trying to help someone, brighten up her life, but one day he came by and she was dead.

I suppose everyone feels responsible in that case. There’s a guilt passed on when someone commits suicide. For a man like Mr. Entwine, a character from a comedy whose spindly legs would dance in the most absurd way as he walked about our lives, it was something he couldn’t understand.

As I marched behind the pallbearers, I thought hard about that, how everything he would have done to help that girl, all the ridiculous antics that would seem like something from a novel, didn’t save her. It was then, I realized, I was glad good old Mr. Entwine could not be an active member of his own funeral. He would have ruined it. There wouldn’t have been any room for sorrow.

I wanted to feel sad, just a little, on that windy day. I wanted to cry as the deep Pacific hummed lowly in the distance. As we buried that silly old man, I smiled and wept, joy and sorrow somehow perfectly entwined.