The Joy of Funerals, page 16
I’m wearing a chocolate brown suit today, one of my better ones, and sophisticated glasses. The chapel is only eight blocks from the North White Plains train station. I got great directions from the balding man who sat next to me. I trudge up the hill, look at the street signs, and follow the instructions until I see cars parked from three blocks away.
The chapel is packed. There are easily over 450 people here. Not one seat is empty. A tingling of excitement starts in my pelvis, and I feel as if I’ve had too much coffee. Everyone is young and pretty and perfect. The seats are filled with doctors and hospital staff, people from the ad agency, friends, neighbors, and family.
“This is truly a turnout,” I say to a thin woman standing next to me in the back.
She nods. ‘’It’s criminal what’s happened.”
“Awful. I was scheduled to see him for a checkup next week. I just can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Were you one of his patients?”
I press my lips together, sigh deeply. “Yeah. He was the first to detect the murmur.” I look her right in the eyes. She’s wearing a brimmed black hat, tilted theatrically to the left. Her lipstick is too red for her complexion and makes her look like a female version of Dracula.
“We should find you a seat.” She takes my hand and pushes her way through a mass of people until she reaches the last pew.
“Howard, would you mind giving up your seat? This girl … woman,” she corrects herself, “was one of Larry’s patients.” Then she lowers her voice, “She has heart problems.”
I don’t accept at first, then when he insists, already on his feet, I obey. “He was a wonderful doctor,” I say, inching into his warm spot, careful not to move too quickly. “One of the best and believe me, I’ve been to enough to know.”
I stick out my hand, shake his, then reach for Dracula’s. “I’m Sally Devon. Larry was the first one to diagnose my murmur.”
Everyone within earshot oohs and nods.
“You have to meet his wife,” she says. “She’d love to talk with you.”
I get a ride to Leslie’s house from Troy and Betty-Ann Morris. Troy and Larry were racquetball partners. Their car is an SUV minivan and has a child’s seat strapped in the back. Betty-Ann clears a place for me, tosses some toys and books over to the left, and emerges with white paper bags and an empty Starbucks container in her hand. “Sorry it’s such a mess.” The back smells vaguely of Pampers and coffee. I finger the stuffed pig and stare out the window, watching the streets turn into a blur of green and blue.
We pass the cemetery on the way to Leslie’s home. Several cars are already there. I see Leslie get out of one of the limos, make out her black sunglasses and matching outfit.
“Sally, you can hang your coat up in there.” Betty-Ann points to the first door on my left as I walk in.
Leslie’s home is beautiful. Large and roomy. Modern, yet warm. The floors are a gray-blue marble, the walls a soft white. A large flower arrangement rests on the glass table behind the couch while another sits on the Lucite coffee table. Blues and creams accentuate the shiny silver-and-chrome furniture.
“It was really sweet of you to offer to help. You sure you’re up to it?”
I nod and follow her into the kitchen. “Larry said,” I stop and look at the floor for a second, then back up at Betty-Ann, “he said as long as I take my medication, I’m fine. Of course roller coasters are out.”
She laughs, introduces me to a neighbor and the housekeeper, then hands me a platter of cold cuts. “That can go on the main table.”
For the next hour, I move around the house as if I’ve lived here my whole life.
As people start to arrive, I duck into the upstairs bathroom. I look in the medicine cabinet and take inventory of the small soaps shaped like shells. There are guest hand towels and a candle from L’Occitane. I open the cabinet underneath the large porcelain sink and find more soap, a basket of travel shampoo and conditioner bottles stolen from hotels, and a box of tampons. Something catches my eye. It’s a mini sewing kit with a big “W” on it. I reach for it and slip it into my pocket.
By the time I come out, the room has filled up. The men are in dark gray suits, the women in slender black dresses and jackets, pashmina shawls draped over them. Others are in cashmere sweaters. All clutch black leather handbags.
I search out Leslie and see her walk in. Someone takes her coat, someone else hugs her and leads her into her own house. I watch from against the wall, paper cup filled with coffee in my hand.
Leslie is one of the most attractive women I have ever met. She looks like Jaclyn Smith when she was an Angel and the show was really popular. If I didn’t know what she did for a living, I’d have thought she was a model. Her eyes are reddish but not glassy, and there are no tears as of yet. I wait for her to walk around, check on things, and finally settle into the family room. Someone brings her fresh coffee. Someone else a plate of crackers and cheese. Another, a glass of wine.
The family room is my favorite. It’s filled with lots of chairs and cushy couches, a large TV, and a fireplace. The smell of wood fills the air. There are huge glass windows that reveal a deck, a pool covered by a large green tarp, and a lovely garden. I visualize a golden retriever or chocolate lab in the kitchen or locked in the bedroom until all the guests have left.
Leslie is distant but approachable, and I listen for a few minutes as others express their condolences. I watch her accept their words, unmoved. Bored.
I inch up to her.
“I’m sure you’ve heard this all day, but he was a wonderful doctor. I was misdiagnosed three times before your husband found the problem.” I see her eyes wander off to the front door. “To be honest, I had a little crush on him. He changed my life.” I think I’ve lost her with this so I add, “The whole thing really sucks.”
She snaps her gaze back to me. “It sure fucking does.”
We wait in silence for a second.
“Thank you. If one more person told me they were sorry for my loss, I think I would have puked.”
“That would have sucked, too.”
She laughs and I know I’ve scored humor points somewhere on an invisible chart of likeability.
Betty-Ann and Troy come over. Others join us, too, and for a moment I feel privileged.
“Who is she?” the woman with the fat lips asks Betty-Ann.
“She’s a patient of Larry’s.”
“Oh.”
Suddenly, all attention is on me. I nod and smile slightly.
“How did you get here?” one of the guests asks—a neighbor of Leslie’s, I think.
“Betty-Ann and Troy drove me.”
“No, I meant to the funeral.”
“I took the train.”
Leslie rolls her eyes in my direction as if we’re old friends.
“Sally, what do you do?” Troy asks.
“I collect circus memorabilia,” the words spill out. “I work with film companies and theater productions.”
More people gather around. My head spins and my heart speeds up.
“Do you smoke?” Leslie whispers in my ear.
I lift an eyebrow.
“Follow me,” she says, pulling at my sleeve.
I accompany her out of the den. She leads me down a flight of steps into her basement. Even though the floor is carpeted, the room is still cold. There’s a washing machine and dryer, a workbench, TV, some odds and ends, mismatched furniture, and a few shelves that hold detergents, bleach, and other cleaning solutions. A large basket of dirty laundry is on the floor.
She props open a small window and pulls out a cigar box from behind the dryer. “If Larry knew l did this, he’d kill me.”
She jumps up onto the washing machine and opens the box. I follow, easing myself up against the dryer and sit next to her. She takes out a joint, followed by a lighter. I watch the flame catch the tightly rolled paper, watch her inhale, see the smoke leave her mouth. I watch her get stoned and ache to tell her how beautiful she is. How her eyes sparkle, almost dance under the basement light.
Years ago I developed the missing gene link theory. The internal need for a sibling. Like looking for my husband, I look for the perfect older sister, the one I have fantasized about having since I was five. Unobtainable, unavailable, standoffish women all in a row. Who will be next? Who will fit the profile? Slightly cold, lightly damaged, mostly injured, all for the asking.
She passes me the joint. I put my lips around the wet paper and breathe in. I let the smoke fill my lungs, feel them expanding inside my chest, and hand it back. I blow smoke out of my mouth and start to laugh. “You know you’ve come a long way when you don’t need to put a towel under the door.”
She smiles. “Are you sure it’s okay for you to do this?”
“It’s fine.” I take another puff, pass it back into her waiting palm. “Fuck if I let a murmur dictate my life,” I say, talking like she does.
“Fucking right.”
She takes another hit, then leans in as if she wants to tell me a secret. I can almost taste her breath, eat her perfume. We are so close and giggle like schoolgirls. I want to reach out and take her hand, see what it feels like in mine, and ask her to share her memories from childhood. I want to know her whole life without her having to tell me. I want to be the one whose number she calls for lunch, who she goes to the movies with, who swirls in with ice cream and videos and cheers her up as we both curse the guy she’s seeing, someone named Mark or Hank or Sid. I hand back the joint and notice how massive her hands are, a fat paw, the kind that could smother you. I want to get lost in them. Her fingers touch mine. It feels like nothing and everything at once. Something moves inside me, painful and deep, as if I’m digging into bone, making me long to tell her how much I need her.
She eyes me. “Sally? You okay?”
I’m afraid to look at her because I think she sees me as I really am. I’m afraid to look away and break the intensity that’s linking us together because I fear I will never get it back. I will never have this moment again. I blink and it’s already gone.
“Sal, are you alright?”
“Yeah.”
There’s silence now, broken only by the knocking of her heels against the dryer and the occasional tapping of her wedding ring on the metal top.
“My sister-in-law is driving me crazy. I know she means well, but she’s killing me. I didn’t like her much before, but seeing her like this is making me lose it. She keeps handing me tissues and telling me to let go. If I really let go, I’d smack the shit out of her.”
We both laugh hysterically at this.
“And she’s a terrible crier. Her whole body shakes and her nose gets red and drippy and the whole thing makes me ill.”
“She’s the one dressed in the blue-and-white-striped thing?”
Leslie nods, rolls her eyes.
“She looks like a circus tent. Maybe I should buy her outfit off her and add it to my collection.”
Leslie laughs so hard she starts to cough. I pat her back; tears fill her eyes, and for a moment, I can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying.
“You know, I never cheated on him. Not once. My friends had flings with their bosses or their friends’ husbands. They’ve met random men in Manhattan, drove in during the day for quick fucks in midtown hotels … ” She shakes her head, stares out. “I was always the faithful, good girl. Even during his internship when I never saw him and spent every fucking night by myself waiting for him to get home.”
I nod and stare out, too.
“I wanted him to take the day off. I begged him to play hooky with me. He had rounds, so we compromised on a 4:30 movie.”
“You had no way of knowing,” I say, my head feeling light, my eyes heavy. I rest my hand on her upper back, feel her shoulder blade. “You want to blame someone, blame the asshole who was driving.”
She nods, joint resting in between her large fingers, her hands on her leg, her eyes staring off somewhere. “Four days ago I had everything—now I have fucking zero.”
“You have so much,” I say, my voice a whisper. “Just look around.”
I think about who would attend my funeral. A few shrinks I disliked. My parents, perhaps a neighbor or two, some random friends who never understood me. Maybe some relatives I haven’t spoken to or seen in a decade will show their faces, then do some shopping at specialty stores they don’t have in their area. “Everyone here seems to truly care about you.”
She wedges the end of the joint into the corner of the ashtray, then dumps it into the cigar box and throws it behind the washer. “Everyone here is useless.”
She jumps off the machine and walks past me. I hear her heels clicking on the steps, hear the intense anger each time they meet the cement. I slide off the dryer and wait, glaring at the empty spot that’s just encompassed her body.
The door opens on the top step, then it closes.
I’ve just ruined whatever relationship we had.
For the next hour, I stand by the window wondering how I can redeem myself and win her back. I wish it was winter and that we were in the middle of a blizzard or a rainstorm. Something to keep me here. “Snow. Snow,” I keep saying to myself.
In the country, snow collects quicker and clumps together like sticky rice. I picture myself pouring wine for Leslie. If I got her too tipsy she wouldn’t be able to drive me to the station. Perhaps all the taxis would be busy, the wait too long. Perhaps it would get so late that she’d just let me sleep over, dressed in her pajamas. Bagels for breakfast, fresh coffee, and the Sunday paper with nothing important to do. The next day stretched out like a grassy field. But the day is beautiful, slightly windy and sunny, the trees heavy with bright green leaves and just a hint of color.
One night is all I want. One night to know I’m not waking up alone.
Betty-Ann and Troy drop me off at the station.
On the ride home, the train is empty. There’s no one to talk to except a drunk man who’s passed out in the last seat at the back of the car. I watch the station get smaller and smaller and eventually disappear.
The first funeral I went to was for my grandfather, on my father’s side. I had just turned eleven and was told he died of leukemia. I remember not having to go to school, even though it wasn’t a holiday, and wearing my good black velvet dress with matching tights and patent leather Mary Janes.
We held the sitting and the service at Frank E. Campbell’s chapel on East 81st and Madison Avenue. I asked if it had anything to do with the soup company. I visualized people milling about, standing over a coffin, clean white bowls in their hands filled with red tomato soup as tears fell into the thick broth.
Though the casket was closed, a large photo of my grandfather standing by the fountain at his Florida home sat on top in a silver frame.
The viewing room was comprised of three large connecting areas and was filled with familiar faces: my parents’ friends, my schoolmates’ parents, and people who I was later introduced to as relatives of mine. It was like a party. A sullen, boring party without music and caterers.
Everyone was extremely nice to me. My mother’s longtime girlfriends gathered around me in a circle. They sat on gold-colored folding chairs with matching velvet padding and leaned forward, a little closer than normal, their faces open but serious, their legs crossed. Their recently polished nails clicked against stout glasses filled with water or long-stemmed glasses holding red or white wine. I was telling a story about my grandfather, something that had to do with a trip to FAO Schwarz, and everyone smiled and nodded. I was holding court and I felt very grown up, very important.
Most exciting was reconnecting with family members I hadn’t seen in years, and being introduced to others I’d never met before. In these circumstances, everyone is included; everyone deserves a chance to say good-bye. The word family was tossed around so freely. I was suddenly labeled. Defined. This is my cousin, … This is my niece, Nina. I sat on people’s laps and got hugs from total strangers.
An hour in, I was hooked.
The funeral was mesmerizing. We went to temple and my rabbi talked about all the good things my grandfather had done. Several of his children from his first marriage spoke, followed by co-workers and old friends.
I loved hearing the stories. Loved finding out about a man I hardly knew.
When the service was over, we piled into a smaller room where people who weren’t coming to the cemetery could express their sympathies. After that, family and close friends assembled into waiting black cars and like a street parade, we left together, one following the other.
The second funeral I attended was for Mr. Marshal, one of my father’s clients, who was at the zoo when he met his fate. He fell into the glass of the insect house and died on impact.
I had heard stories about how weird and outrageous he was. That he’d owned a cemetery, and every Halloween he’d invite me and my parents to go trick-or-treating with him and his two daughters, Gail and Gwen. On holidays and as “thank-yous,” he sent my father horror movies and true crime novels as gifts. My father would bring home the movies, and we’d watch them together, popcorn between us, lights dimmed. The books sat unread on a shelf in his den.
My father was the executor of the will and it was important for him to be there. Good for business. The church was old and musty, and we were overdressed. My mother stood out in her black pantsuit and my father was the only one in a tie. We sat in the middle pew, though I’d wanted a front seat. I wanted to see Mrs. Marshal and her two daughters. I wanted to know what kind of man their father was.
