The Tale of Two Joyces

A true story, and a wonderful memory

After my dad died, I got roped into chauffeuring his sister and his longtime girlfriend, both named Joyce, on a funeral tour that took us clear across two states, from Louisiana to El Dorado, Arkansas to bury my dad, and then all the way up to Paragould to bury Uncle Jr. whose ashes had been waiting in a jar for nearly a year and a half.

My eldest sibling, my sister thirteen years older than me, had volunteered me for the job. "If you don't drive them, they can't go," she said, like it was that simple. "And they need to be there."

This was no small ask. After getting stranded in the dark at a family reunion once, too afraid to step outside the circle of light streetlamp cast, while everyone else was up at the meeting hall, I'd sworn never to travel anywhere without my own car. But here I was, ditching my vehicle to pile into theirs, giving up control of the radio and my escape route for the greater good of family duty.

Now, let me be clear: neither Joyce's elevator went all the way to the top.

Dad's girlfriend, Ms. Joyce, was a beloved dingbat, completely ignorant in the most innocent, magnetic way. Aunt Joyce had a fiery streak and fancied herself the smarter of the two, though it was a tight race.

Packing the car up to hit the road, Ms. Joyce gleefully declared that she and Aunt Joyce were Thelma and Louise. That set the tone for the trip, equal parts sitcom and cliffdiving into the unknown. On the road, a pair of sunglasses kept sliding back and forth across the dashboard with every hint of centrifugal force. After about the fiftieth time, Aunt Joyce mused, "them sunglasses sound like farts, don’t it?" From the back seat came "Oh, Joyce!"

The night before we buried dad, the whole extended family gathered in the hotel lobby. Twenty people in all, sprawled across couches and chairs with pizza, drinks, and photo albums my sister had compiled. Stories were flowing along with the beer, and everyone was taking turns with the scrapbooks, pointing at pictures and saying things like "Remember when..." and "Lord, look how young we were."

But of course, the Joyces didn't want pizza. They wanted Arby's.

So off we went.

Aunt Joyce knew exactly what she wanted. She was a regular. But Ms. Joyce hemmed and hawed at the counter like she was trying to choose a tattoo.
"You want a roast beef sandwich?" "No." "Burger?" "No." "Salad?" "No... I think I want bacon."
I flipped the menu over. "They've got a BLT. Want to try that?"
"Yes," she said. "But I don't want lettuce or tomato."
"So... you want a bacon sandwich?"
"Yes," she beamed.

The Arby's crew must've had a field day with that one. When they handed over the box, the sandwhich was bursting with at least two inches of nothing but bacon. A comically generous pile.

She ate half, patted her belly, and asked for a to-go box.
"Midnight snack?" I asked.
"No," she said, completely sincere. "I'm going to see if someone back at the hotel wants it."

Aunt Joyce and I just stared at each other, silently asking the same question: Who in God's name is going to want that?

Back at the hotel, I watched Ms. Joyce work the room with her bacon offering. She approached each cluster of family members like she was serving hors d'oeuvres at a cocktail party. "Anyone want the rest of my sandwich?" Most people politely declined, but a few cousins actually looked at the offered pile of bacon between two narrow slices of bread before declining. Ms Joyce honestly didn't understand.

I found my sister flipping through one of the photo albums and told her about the Arby's adventure. She looked up at me and grinned. "I knew those two were going to be a hoot, and I'm a little jealous you get to be the witness."

The next morning, we drove to the cemetery to bury our father's ashes next to our mother. It was attached to an old Baptist church that had been defunct for years, the kind of place that's being mowed by the last cousin from a neighbor family. The headstones were weathered, some tilting, grass growing up through the cracks. But it was where our people belonged, where the family line was buried going back generations.

Standing there in that forgotten place, watching the Joyces fuss over the flowers and argue about where everyone should stand for the service, I realized something. Ms. Joyce wandering around the hotel lobby with her bacon sandwich, my sister compiling photo albums, all of us gathering in cemetery that time forgot, we were all doing the same thing. We were taking care of each other the only way we knew how, making sure nobody got left behind or forgotten.

Even if it meant driving two slightly batty women named Joyce clear across two states, offering bacon sandwiches, or walking around a cemetery nobody visits anymore with the elders pointing to headstones and telling stories. That's what family should do. Show up, share what we have, and make sure the stories get told. And the two Joyces? They were the greatest gift givers of all.

Explore More: Real Voices

Afterword

"Steeple." "Steeple." "Steeple."

"Aunt Joyce what are you doing?"

"Just sayin every time I see a steeple, bout the only thing they got out here."

"That's not entirely true Aunt Joyce, there's dollar stores everywhere. See, dollar store."

And so now I joined in Aunt Joyce's chorus.

"Steeple" "Steeple" "Dollar store" "Steeple" "Dollar store" "Dollar store"

Then at once together "McDonalds!!"

Ms Joyce popped up in the backseat from an unplanned nap "Oh thank God, I need to pee."