The Joy of Funerals, page 18
I hurry back into the living room, hoping to find her there, seated in the exact spot on the couch. But no.
People are still clumped together in the kitchen doorway, but Faye is standing now, held up by her sister and another man. They move her slowly, one on either side, down the hallway. In the distance, she looks like a star football player with an injured knee, her arms hanging loosely off their shoulders, the carriers’ arms wrapped tightly around her waist.
It’s then that I look toward the mantel, up at the urn. Except it’s not there. I look around the room, thinking someone has moved it. Look to the floor to see if it’s fallen. But it’s just not here. It’s vanished. As if it got up and rolled away on its own. I half expect to find small fragments of Marty, like a little trail of crushed-up bone and skin mapping out where he’s gone off to.
Helen is nowhere to be found and I wish I had gotten her address or a last name. I would have sent her a bracelet. She’s the exact type of person my mother would love to see me with: classy, well-dressed, WASPy enough to look society-esque and be photographed in all the important monthlies. Then she’d finally have something to show to her friends. “Did you see Nina’s photo in Avenue? Oh, she was at that charity event. Stood right next to the mayor … ”
I don’t feel like saying good-bye to anyone, so I take my raincoat and leave.
I walk through the park, looking at the foliage. The greens are transforming into bursts of color, the sun is saying good night a little earlier. I wish I had someone’s hand to grasp. A boyfriend in a crewneck sweater and wavy, dark hair with nothing but the rest of the day drawn out for us to stream movies and order in Chinese.
Beth Resnick looks as if someone has sucked the color out of her face. She’s thin and pale and appears terribly lonely. Her skin is ivory-white with just a hint of peach eye shadow and matching gloss on her lips. Her eyes are a soft brown, and her chestnut hair is twisted back in a loose knot. She’s dressed in a long prairie skirt with a white shirt sticking out from under a gray wool knit sweater. The sleeves are long and cover most of her hands. Only the tips of her thin fingers are revealed.
There are maybe twenty people at her mother’s funeral, making this the smallest one I’ve been to in years. The group, made up of women in their late fifties, are bridge friends. I know this because several people have been describing their card hands and talking about club tournaments and how many points Marion had when she died.
The chapel is a one-stop shop. Reminiscent of the old kind that would sell you the casket, perform the embalming, take care of the makeup, even hold the reception afterwards. The Rockwell Funeral Parlor does it all.
Surprisingly, the casket is open. I’m tempted to take a photo of her but the room is so small that I’m positive someone would notice.
Marion is exquisite, like a porcelain doll. Her face has a healthy, rosy glow, like she’s been sunning in Miami. Her lips are full and red, her eyes, perfectly blended. I half expect them to flutter open. One of the ladies said she was wearing a wig but I couldn’t tell.
When the service is over, I wait in line, eager to talk to Beth, drawn to her loneliness. It’s a scent she wears. I know because I wear it, too. It sits like a pretty bottle on my dresser and clings to my every movement. I wonder if we all smell the same.
Beth receives a few sporadic hugs, but mostly the ladies touch her arm or reach for her hand. She nods, wraps a piece of fallen hair behind her ear, and fiddles with her pearl earring, twisting it with her fingers. She keeps her lips pressed and smiles thoughtfully, glasses on her nose, a beautiful pin on her sweater. She frequently clasps her hands and raises them to her face, cupping them together as if trying to inhale the wool. Perhaps she’s trying to capture someone’s scent that lingers on her after a hug. The men with too much aftershave, women who have over-spritzed their perfume. Maybe she’s smelling herself to make sure she’s still here.
I wait to catch her eye, to see if I should approach, to see if she notices me.
Beth didn’t cry once during the eulogy and has remained dry-eyed since the proceedings started. This is rare behavior. Many people put on good show, running around as if they’re producing an event. Others are so transparent, you can actually see them faking their crocodile tears behind their big black glasses. Some are a complete mess, making you wonder how they will ever get through the next five minutes, let alone a lifetime. Most, however, are in shock and the grief hasn’t hit yet.
Beth is none of these. She is gentle, soft-spoken and meek. There’s an honest and exposed sadness about her which makes me feel terrible for lying, and I’m sure when my time comes, God will punish me for this. For going to all the funerals, for taking advantage of people’s good intentions and kind offerings.
As I wait in line to express my sympathies, I search through an invisible list of lies I’ve concocted for such occasions. But today, I’m at a loss. What can I say? That if I lived in this neighborhood, too, our mothers would have been friends? I visualize Beth and me at school, sitting next to each other in the cafeteria, trading sandwiches. Her tuna for my chicken salad. Her turkey on white for my pb and j.
A nervous, tingling sensation starts inside my stomach as my eyes catch Beth’s friends. And I know as I approach, Beth doesn’t need another one. The gaps and voids she has have been filled. There is nothing I can offer.
I’m about to leave when a chunky woman, dressed in a long black shirt and a lace skirt that reaches the floor, pops in front of me. Every ounce of skin is bedecked with turquoise jewelry. Her earrings are clunky, her necklace is overpowering, and almost every finger sports a ring. Even her watch strap is encrusted in stones.
“Are you a friend of Beth’s?” she asks. She looks like a lost gypsy.
“Yes.”
“From school?”
“That’s right. It’s been a while since I’ve … ”
“What do you teach?”
I look at her blankly. “Drama.”
“How lovely.” She looks off in Beth’s direction. “I’m sure she’d be glad to know you’re here. Come say hello.”
She puts an arm around my shoulder and tries to steer me closer to Beth.
“No, that’s okay. I really just wanted to be here for the service.”The line is moving faster now.
“I was … ”
“I’m Georgia,” she announces, interrupting me for a second time. “I did her mother’s makeup.”
I freeze, then twist to face her. “Really? She looked fantastic, if that’s not too forward for me to say. It’s just that my sister-in-law is ill, and I was wondering if you had a card or something.” I’m stalling. Then I make my eyes water. “She’s very vain, and I know she’d feel much better if there was someone to take care of her.”
“Of course, darling. Anything I can do to help.”
I smile shyly and look up in time to catch Beth and her friend staring at us.
I wave, then mouth the word sorry.
They look confused. Beth’s face scrunches up and the friend whispers something in her ear. Beth shrugs and starts to walk forward.
I look back at Georgia. “I’ve got to go. My kids are waiting.”
“Honey, it’ll be but a few moments more.”
I have maybe one, two minutes to get out of here.
“Please, Georgia, I must catch a train.” My voice is pleading, and I hear the urgency.
“You came all this way and you can’t spend a few minutes with her?”
What is she, a goddamn cruise director? Beth is several feet away, her hand is already starting to extend. I pull free and holler, “Beth. I’m so sorry.” As I back up, I bump into two people standing behind me. “I’ll call you later tonight and check in.”
I stumble a bit while spinning around and cut hurriedly toward the first doorway I see. I don’t know where I’m going—it could be the room where they sell the coffins or the place they do the embalming, but I can’t worry about that now. There’s always a back door or an emergency exit somewhere. Worst case scenario, I’ll use the window. We’re only on the first floor.
The hallway is dark, and it takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the quick change in light. Voices fade and my breathing becomes louder. The good news: my shoes are muffled, thanks to the carpet. Bad news: I can’t tell if someone’s following me.
The end of the hallway reveals a set of steps leading down, and a door. Steps, as a rule, are a bad idea. I wrap my hand around the knob and pray it turns.
The room is tiny and bright. Several candles are lit on a wooden table. Something smells acidic—no, of sulfur. I close the door behind me, but there’s no lock. A smaller door is on the opposite side of the room, and I see myself as a twenty-first century Alice in a twisted version of Wonderland.
The next room is an old kitchen decorated in faded aluminum. On the counter is a plate of sugar cookies and pre-sliced pound cake. A metal tray holds two large pitchers of water, a Styrofoam cup with wooden stirrers, a bowl of sugar, and a box of Sweet’N Low. Suddenly very thirsty, I look for more cups, but come up empty-handed.
There are no windows, so I walk deeper into the kitchen and finally see a screen door. I grasp the handle sharply, authoritatively, and proceed through.
The street is unfamiliar. As far as I can tell, I’m in the back of the block. Disoriented, I walk through a gated area, past an empty lot, and finally arrive at the corner of Spruce and Hempstead. I have no idea where I am. All the streets in Rockville Centre look the same. I can’t even see the front of the chapel. In the distance is the sound of a train. I walk several blocks until I feel comfortable enough to ask for directions.
As I wait for the 4:05 to take me back to Penn Station, I swear to myself this is the last out-of-town service I will attend.
I’m still shaking when I get to the bead store. Like the headstones at the cemetery, the beads are divided into rows and rows. Large, small, round, square, shiny, frosted. Greens become blues, blues to purple, and all the way through the rainbow. Blacks, silver, and gold reside in the last few columns. The orderliness calms me. The smell of sandalwood incense is soothing. I even enjoy chatting with the young Chinese women who own the small establishment. They greet me warmly even though they are constantly forgetting my name. I overlook this because their salutations are genuine, their big, round faces open and accepting. They ask me what I’m working on every time I’m here. They look at each other, nod, and make exaggerated expressions.
On my way out I check the large bulletin board filled with school information and people looking to sell glue guns and tables and such. I think about signing up for a class at The New School or Parsons School of Design, anything artistic that I can do with my hands. I write down some numbers and take several brochures.
At home I sift through the material, hoping something will jump out at me. There are classes in everything: Stringing with Wire at Parsons sounds interesting. Working with Metal at The New School piques my interest. A class on blowing glass beads is offered at the Y. I call to see about availability but it’s already full. The Learning Annex has the most bizarre offerings: Sex Tips from a Dominatrix; Connecting with Your Angels; Contacting the Dead; but the course that sells me is a weekend getaway to Macon, Georgia, where a rambler, a person trained in storytelling and factual history, leads a tour of the historic Rose Hill Cemetery.
The woman at the Annex tells me I’m very lucky, I’ve gotten the last spot.
“You’ll love this,” she assures me. “Since Halloween is only a few weeks away, this course has become very popular.” She takes down my credit card number and tells me to have a wonderful time.
I mark “Rose Hill” on my calendar with a red Sharpie pen, then count the days in my head till I leave.
Men act completely different at funerals from women. They clump together, lean on walls, or stand in doorframes. They huddle in small groups, hands shoved deep into their pants pockets or arms crossed over their chests. They talk about sports, the market, the recently deceased in memory, not emotion. They rarely cry. Sometimes I go just to see if there are any eligible bachelors.
I’ve met a few men through these gatherings. Even brought one home once. But they never stay long and not many of them enjoy going to funerals with me.
I have a fantasy about finding a husband or at least a boyfriend here. A male version of myself, who pays shiva calls, sits at wakes, and longs to be part of something whole. We could start a family, or I’d be adopted into his, where appearances at holiday functions would be mandatory.
Clive was nothing more than someone to talk to. I met him three years ago at a funeral for a dog trainer. He had a goatee that was somehow charming and an Irish accent. He sat very close and every now and then whispered in my ear. I couldn’t understand him, but the accent was such a turn-on it didn’t matter. I just nodded and laughed and followed his expressions. If he looked angry, I frowned. If I turned to face him and found him smiling, I did, too.
To get through college he worked the night shift at a morgue. As a lad in Ireland, where he spent several years hanging out and finding himself, he dug graves for cash. He seemed to enjoy funerals as much as I did. He attended a few here and there, found them eerily titillating and had fantasies about banging a girl on a coffin or doing it in one of the graves he’d dug.
At first, I thought I’d found the perfect man. We could go to funerals together, become the flawless his-and-her team. “How did you two meet?” people would have asked. “At a funeral,” we’d answer, and then we’d laugh, an inside joke for us to share. We’d hold hands and smile, say something like, “See, good can come from something terribly sad.” But he was clearly disturbed. Even I could spot that. I wanted someone searching for the living—Clive was more concerned in finding the dead.
We went on one date. I felt disconnected with him as we walked to the restaurant; and he was fidgety through most of dinner. He tapped the pads of his fingers on the table as he talked. I could see him wondering how much longer he’d have to sit here, pretending to be interested.
There is no photo of Richard D. Mulder in the paper, just a seventy-word blurb, a Cliffs Notes version of a man’s life encapsulated in nothing more than cherished so-and-so, adored this-and-that.
The guys I meet at his service seem like boys rather than men even though most are in their mid-thirties. They are fraternity brothers and office buddies who travel in a pack, smoke cigars, and drink heavily. They work hard, play harder. They are goodlooking boys in suits and ties, polished loafers, freshly gelled hair. They believe in staying out late and taking spur-of-the-moment jaunts to Miami and Atlantic City. Few are married, fewer still are ready to settle down. But they are cute, and I want to find one, take him home with me, and make him fall in love.
The service is predominantly testosterone-driven, though a few women are sprinkled in the mix for color. Some are from college, others are cousins, but mostly they are Richard’s mother’s friends. Seeing there’s not much competition, my chances here are good.
The parents’ friends convene on one side, the thirty-five-and-under on the other. It reminds me of my first boy-girl social at school where no one wanted to cross to the other side and ask a classmate to dance.
Usually, I search for someone to talk to. Anyone whose face looks open and accepting, or who is sitting alone and appears as if they, too, are hoping to connect with someone. Next, I ask myself, can I be helpful? If the answer to this is still no, I look for a body to comfort. It’s easier to befriend someone who needs you. To grab them in their dark time and create a bond when they are weak and low and tired and suffering and extra breakable. But since Richard’s service is mostly men, these rules don’t apply. Instead, I go on attraction.
An Asian man with jet-black spiked hair catches my eye. Too pretty. Next to him is a bald man with glasses in a fitted turtleneck sweater. Too prissy. Third from the left of the entranceway is just right. His full face looks freshly shaven and moon-like. He has a mess of black curls and wears wire-rimmed glasses.
I pass through the doorframe, accidentally knocking into him. “Sorry. Good thing I’m not drinking.”
“You might be better off if you had a few,” he retorts.
I smile, girlie-like.
Dean tells me how his fraternity brother, Richard, was found dead on the steps of his townhouse. How he still can’t believe the news and thinks the whole thing absurd.
“The police aren’t doing a fucking thing to help. They’re completely useless. All they confirm was that he was drunk and stoned. Christ, I could have told them that.”
He fills in the pertinent information: parents’ names, where Richard worked, that he was very good at his job—no one ever tells a negative story about the dead—that he loved to fish and was known for spending hours at sea on his boat. His nickname was “Ishmael” and upon seeing him, friends would quote lines from Moby Dick. He was a mammoth of a whale, gray and black. He explains how Richard was the favored child. That his younger brother had a nervous breakdown and was institutionalized for a bit but seems much better now. When he asks me what my connection is, I explain about the necklace Richard had commissioned me to make for his mother, an early birthday present. I gamble on that one. I was going to say holiday gift, but December is still two months away. I don’t want to ruin this, so I stay pretty true to real life.
“We’d been working on the present for a few weeks—it was going to be a surprise for her. Anyway, we got friendly. My father owned a boat years ago and we talked about that, and I showed him my fly-fishing photos. He was fun.” I shrug. “We talked on the phone a bunch of times. He was going to trade some stocks for me … ” I pause, smooth out the creases in my skirt. “I didn’t know whether to bring the gift for his mother or not. It was already paid for. He was really pleased with himself for designing it. I just thought she’d want to know what a sweet son she had.”
