The Joy of Funerals, page 10
In preparation, she had put on her best dress. It fit snugly over her middle. She brought her stash of eye shadows and lipsticks: turquoise, purples, reds sold to her by saccharine sales ladies who swore these were her perfect colors. She wanted to look her best, wanted him to see her at her premium.
She sat listening to oldies but goodies, applying mascara, looking as if she were going on a date. A date? What a joke. The only man to ask her out in the past five years was the cable guy who came to upgrade her system. He had offered her free HBO, a small attempt to sway her into having dinner. A perk, he said. ‘’I’m a fella with connections.” Then he had laughed. “Do you get it? Connections.” She had smiled politely as he ran wire up her wall. “Something sure smells good,” he said as he tested the set. But she was only boiling water for macaroni and cheese.
She studied her face in the rearview mirror. She looked like a fat china doll with too much blush and harsh lipstick. No matter what she did to improve her looks, she would always be the fat girl no one wanted to play with, the fat girl who had no father.
Ben had said 6:30 p.m. Shannon checked her watch: 7:05. She sipped Diet Coke and waited in the diner by the window, not knowing what else to do.
It didn’t matter—she was used to waiting. As a child she would wait by the screen door, anxious for her father to return from his long day. Before he had a chance to get out of the car, she would run up to him, eager to carry his heavy suitcase filled with useless items everyone was supposed to need in their lives: corn on the cob skewers in the shape of crosses with Jesus glued on them, a toenail clipper/cigar cutter, flower-scented vacuum bags with pictures of Elvis’s face on them. Too heavy for her, his old tan suitcase would scrape along the dirt road back to their house, leaving a path behind them.
Her father was often late for dinner. Let’s give him five more minutes, okay? her mother would say. But five minutes turned into ten and ten turned into twenty. By then the food was overcooked, dry, and cold, salad wilted, mashed potatoes thick and turning yellow. Eventually hunger would prevail and she and her mother would eat.
Hours later, she would watch her father inhale his reheated dinner on an old metal tray while he watched Jack Benny and Milton Berle on their black-and-white TV. She would sit on the opposite side of the couch, her small body scrunched up against plastic pillows and cushions. Fearful of disturbing him, she’d hold her breath and make believe she was paralyzed, praying he would talk to her, tell her about his day, ask about hers. What’d ya do in school? Without answering, she would leap off of the couch and come running back with a picture she made and proudly stand before him, waiting for his approval. He’d turn off the TV, put down his fork, and take the picture from her hands. My, ain’t this here fine. You’re a real art-iste. This never happened.
She’d give Ben five more minutes. Besides, she had already told Lilly a surprise awaited.
Ben’s car finally pulled up. She watched him get out, watched him open the car door, put his feet on the cement, and wipe his face with a dirty handkerchief. With one hand on the top of the door frame and the other on the seat, he raised himself out. Once standing, he reached into the car and retrieved a large brown package. Memories of her as a young child appeared like balloons popping fast and loud: him yelling at her for not being quiet during his TV time; her blowing out candles with only her mother and her aunt to wish her a happy birthday; her father’s body underneath the covers as he slept, the sun shining brightly into his room. She sat staring out the diner window, looking at Ben, feeling as though she couldn’t breathe.
She waved as he entered. When he caught sight of her, he smiled and nodded his head, unzipped his tan jacket, and took off his hat. He eased himself into the padded bench, his face wet with sweat. Shannon looked at their reflection in the window: they looked so similar in shape, two Weebles wedged into a booth.
“Sorry I’m late. Car trouble. Then I had to drop off an order. Salesman’s job is never done.” He slid the package to her, as if he had smuggled drugs.
“Here ya go. A/B.” He called for the waitress. “Cup of coffee, please,” he said to her. Then added, “She’s a real pretty one.” At first, Shannon thought Ben was talking about her to the waitress, then realized he meant the book.
Shannon pushed it aside.
“Don’t you want to see it?”
“It’s for a friend.”
“Oh,” he said. His eyes were soft.
She had an urge to hold his hand, ask him who he was.
He reached for a fistful of Sweet’N Low and shoved them in his pocket. He took a wad of napkins and added them to his stash. She thought he was going to take the salt and pepper shakers, too, if she hadn’t been sitting there. Maybe sell them to would-be customers, pitching them as authentic diner items. It’s very fashionable and nostalgic, he’d tell bewildered housewives and frenzied men with crying children in their arms.
He glanced up. “Anything on the table is fair game. Besides, they expect it. That’s why it’s out here.” He grinned as packets of sugar fell out from his hands.
She was comforted by his familiar looks, the smell of his hard effort, the kind of life he led. She had resurrected her father’s face so many times—during the night when she couldn’t sleep, on the train, at the supermarket standing in line—that she couldn’t remember what was real and what was a feature she’d created so he’d look more handsome.
She should have brought her mother down from the nursing home. See if there was a spark of recognition. But her mother lived in two places, half this world, half another. She would never be sure if her mother truly thought this man was her father or if she was just answering “yes” through her medicated haze.
“How long have you been a salesman?” she asked.
“My whole life.”
“Have you lived here long?”
“Moved around from town to town.”
“Your wife must be proud that you’re still … ”
“Ain’t married.”
Did that mean ever or just no longer. “Do you have family here?”
He looked up at her, his pudgy hand in mid-reach for Equal packets. “You’re full of questions.”
“Sorry. I just wanted … I mean, I was hoping … ” Not knowing what else to say, she sucked on her straw and made a sharp, hissing noise.
“No, I understand. You want to know who you’re buying from. Lots of folks feel better buying from someone they know. But a pretty thing like you should have no trouble finding someone to talk to.” While she watched him take another fistful of napkins and shove them in his coat, something inside her cracked open.
The waitress came by and slipped the bill on their table. The thin, green paper with the words Thank you for your patronage, printed lightly on the top, lay facedown. Shannon wanted to see if he’d reach for it first. Pick up the check, she tried to tell him mentally. Her father had never taken her out. Never showed her off to anyone, never bought her a soda or candy, never wiped a malted milk mustache off her lip.
“So, check or cash?”
“What?”
“The book,” he said, pointing. “How do you want to pay?”
Shannon removed forty dollars from her bag, laid it out on the table as he took out a dollar and put her two twenties into his pocket.
“Thank you, miss. This should cover the coffee. Glad we could meet. This sure saved me a bunch of time.” He gathered himself, slid out from the booth, and started to leave. “Oh,” he said turning back, “your next one should be in on Tuesday. Could we meet here?”
She nodded.
“Alrighty, then. Same bat time, same bat station.” He laughed and walked away.
Shannon fingered the faded dollar bill that lay face up on the table. Felt its age, put her hand over the wrinkled top. She took his bill and replaced it with three of her own. That would cover her Coke and tip. She should have written Ben a check. Perhaps he would have recognized her mother’s last name. As far as Shannon knew, he didn’t even know her name, had never asked her for it.
He was just pulling out when Shannon started her engine. If she hurried, she could follow him home.
Shannon got to the office early, the book heavy in her arms, her makeup smeared. This would all be worth it in the end, she told herself, as she dropped it noisily onto her desk.
There was no sign of Lilly.
At 10:52, Lilly finally made her appearance. Shannon was up and waiting at her desk before Lilly had a chance to take off her coat.
“This is for you.” She had written a little note in black ink on the top. To make your day a little easier. Now she stood like Vanna White, pointing to the book.
Lilly looked at the package and stuck her cigarette in her mouth. Shannon watched as it dangled from her lips, collecting ashes.
Lilly read the note, smiled for a second, ripped open the brown paper, and stared. “What is this?”
Was she blind? “It’s an encyclopedia. One comes every other week. I ordered you the whole set.” Shannon beamed.
Lilly stood, blinking at her.
Shannon’s eyes dropped to the desk as she searched for something else to say. “It’s real leather.” She looked back up at Lilly. “They’re really quite wonderful. My cousin has a set and is always saying how terrific they are. She does similar work—she’s a fact checker,” Shannon lied.
“Where does she work?”
“What?”
“Your cousin. Where does she work?” Lilly jabbed.
“Vogue.”
“You have a cousin at Vogue? What’s her name?”
“I just thought you’d like to have them, too.” She ran her finger over the edge of Lilly’s desk. She tried to get her body to move, wanted to tell her feet to go, but she couldn’t.
“Well, thanks.” She picked up the phone and waited for Shannon to leave.
After a moment, she slumped back to her desk and curled her heavy legs into herself.
At lunchtime, Shannon sat in a closed stall in the bathroom and unwrapped her sandwich, peanut butter and jelly, and a small container of cranberry juice. She heard the door open and instantly recognized Lilly’s smell of cigarettes and Obsession.
“Can you believe that? I mean, how weird. She just handed me the thing and then claims she has a cousin or something working at Vogue.”
“How do you know she doesn’t?” The other voice belonged to Nina, her boss’s daughter.
Shannon didn’t move.
“Because I know all the editors there. I’m going to call. What’s her last name?”
She looked through the small crack and watched them model for each other. They stood in front of the mirror, applying lipstick and blush.
“Dorren, I think.”
Shannon saw Nina run her fingers through her hair, then check her teeth. Perhaps she should have sought Nina’s friendship instead.
“She just kind of hovers over you, but then never says anything. And she’s always knocking into things,” Lilly added.
Shannon stuffed as much of the thick sandwich into her mouth as possible and tried to hold back her tears as peanut butter oozed out. She was sure they could smell her lunch wafting through the stall, mixing with Lilly’s pungent scent.
“Christ, if I have to deal with this each month … ” Lilly said, blotting her lips.
“Maybe you should give it back if you’re not going to use it?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
She watched them leave, heard the door slam shut.
Shannon choked for a bit before she was able to regain her composure, then stood in front of the bathroom mirror and saw her blotchy reflection.
The book was on Shannon’s desk when she came into work the next day. It was just sitting there amongst the pile of bills. Lilly was nowhere in sight.
Not knowing what else to do, she called Ben, hoping he was home.
“Books and Nooks,” he answered.
His flat voice brought her some relief. “Hi, this is Shannon.”
“Who?”
“The woman from the diner?”
“Oh, yes. Hello right back to you. I hope there’s no problem with the book?”
“Well, actually, I need to cancel my subscription.”
“Why?” He was almost crying.
“I was wondering if I could get my money back, like you said.”
“I’m afraid you can’t do that. You need to wait till you receive all of them.”
“But that makes no sense.”
“A/B is really not that good, C/D is much better,” he assured.
“It’s not that, they’re lovely books,” she wrapped the telephone cord around her finger, watched the tip turn red. “It’s just that the person I bought them for, the person I was giving them to … died.” That was all she could come up with.
“Oh. I am sorry.”
Then all went quiet. She waited for something to say, waited for Ben to add more to the conversation, and when he didn’t, when the sound of static coming from the end of the receiver was too much to take, she said, “So … ” and listened to her voice trail off.
“I guess under the circumstances I could make an exception. You’ve only had it for two days. But I’ll have to charge you half. I already ordered the other and there’s a penalty for mid cancellations.”
A swell of grief and relief passed over her, like waves crashing against her temples. He would help her. Make an exception. Maybe he did know.
When Lilly came back from lunch, sipping iced coffee, dark glasses on, laughing loudly on her cell, something in Shannon snapped. A small cord had been cut, like the one the TV guy had replaced on her wall.
She waited for Lilly to sit. Waited for her to end her call and pick up the phone on her desk. She waited half an hour more, her body trembling, nausea whooshing inside her. When Shannon could wait no longer, she walked over to Lilly’s desk.
“Why didn’t you want them?” Shannon’s voice was low. Soft. But there.
“What?” Lilly said, covering the mouthpiece. “I’m on the phone, do you mind?” Then back to her call, “Sooooo sorry. Someone in accounting wanted to know … ”
Then a little louder, “The book. Why didn’t you want it?”
“Calm down.” Lilly looked around nervously. “No one asked you to buy them in the first place. Jesus.”
Without thinking, Shannon took the phone out of Lilly’s slim hand and hung up.
“Who the hell do you think … ”
But Shannon talked over her as if possessed. “You didn’t even bother to look at it.”
Lilly gawked, surprised. Co-workers were staring.
“I tried to do something nice for you … ” Her voice broke.
“Why?” Lilly snapped back.
There were snickers from officemates, and suddenly Mr. Perlman was standing over them. “What seems to be the problem, ladies?”
“Nothing,” Lilly was quick to say. “Shannon was just asking me a question about the Bellenger case and that she couldn’t find the client’s hour sheet … ”
And then the bells.
Shannon had forgotten.
Lilly rolled her eyes, her face smug, and kept talking. Shannon knew they made fun of her. But at this moment she wished the bells would just drown out Lilly’s voice.
She counted in her head along with the chimes, hoping that would speed up the process, first by twos, then by threes. She did this at the dentist and gynecologist, and during turbulent flights to Florida when visiting her aunt and uncle. But it was useless today. She felt beads of sweat drip down her back and bleed through her white silk shirt. Felt the dampness under her arms grow wetter.
She watched the large clock above the counter turn to 7:00 p.m. Ben was a half-hour late. Maybe saying he would meet her was just a line. Maybe he had no intention of showing up at all. What did he care? He already had her money.
On rare occasions, her father would let her pretend to be the customer and pitch her some of his items, ones he insisted would make them rich. Even though she was only six, he coached her to be all kinds of people—the hard sell, the pushover, the unsure buyer. Then, without warning, he was gone.
She had stood waiting for him all day. The next day, too. She lingered all week by the screen door, peering out into the summer heat and dust, expecting him to come home and announce that he had sold everything and from that moment on, he would never be away from her and his wife again. A month later they received a letter on lined white paper explaining how he needed to be on his own. That he was sorry.
Her soda was now a mix of melted ice and light brown water. Her napkin was shredded into tiny white bits that lay clumped in a small pile. Who the hell did this salesman think he was, telling her he’d meet her and then not show? How dare he. She had been taken advantage of all her life. Not now. Not anymore. She threw some money on the table, grabbed the book, and got into her car.
Traffic was light and it only took her twenty minutes to get to his house, an old, rundown shack with thick layers of caked paint peeling off one another.
The door was barely attached but she knocked on it lightly, her body shaking. When she received no answer, she banged her fist harder, even yelled for him a few times. Still nothing. She tried the knob. It was open, the lock broken and worn down.
The house was musty and wet. There was hardly any furniture, just a ratty-looking couch and an old TV, the kind she had as a child. She swore she could smell her father’s cologne, Old Spice, waft through the apartment. Everywhere she looked were boxes, each filled with items, an endless path of useless stuff. What’s junk to some is treasure to another, her father once said. She ran her hand over brass money clips, and letter openers with Disney characters on them. They sparkled and shimmered. Her hand went to a pen with a girl on it. She held it upside down and watched the black dress disappear to reveal a naked body, legs curled up, breasts large and ripe. Her father had sold items like these, kept them in a large closet piled high. Occasionally he’d show her something from a catalogue. She’d run her hands over each item, all of which possessed magical powers.
