The Joy of Funerals, page 2
I told him about Larry. He told me about his dead daughter. That his wife, a Jew, insisted she be buried here. “A baby born with a tumor on her brain stem,” he said. His English was poor so that tumor sounded like to more. “How does God let this happen?” he asked me as we stared at clouds that moved past us as hurriedly as Roman spoke.
There were times I wanted to dig up the graves, rip open the coffins, and see who these men visit, who they paid homage to, who they’ve lost. At night I’d fantasize about parading around the cemetery, decaying bodies in my arms, families trailing behind me, picking up fallen jewelry, clothing, and body parts.
“I would place them back in their homes and kiss them all good-bye,” I tell him.
Roman smiled when I said this. “You are an angel who watch over my Melissa,” he said, his voice smooth as the Kesslers’ walls. “With you, my angel, I know she is safe.” Then he kissed the mark his cross had made on my chest. It was raw and blotchy, and it stung when he rolled his tongue over it.
At home, I showered, modeled my earned scar in the mirror, and checked the answering machine. I hadn’t changed the outgoing message yet, so Larry’s voice still said, “Hi, Leslie and Larry can’t come to the phone … ” No one commented anymore except my mother, who insisted I see a therapist. “Perhaps one that deals specifically with loss,” she said, as if that could have helped. I liked hearing his voice when I checked my messages from outside. A serenity would move through me, like being immersed in a bath filled with warm water. And for a second, I would think it was him calling from the hospital, saying he was on his way, or that a patient had to have emergency heart surgery. Would I wait for him to eat? Could I pick him up at the hospital and go out for dinner instead?
Whenever Larry was late, he’d bring me goodies from work: tongue depressors with little notes scribbled on them in felt-tip marker: You’re my lifeline, a red ribbon wrapped around them; a box of cotton swabs filled with potpourri; a magazine stolen from the waiting room, Property of St. Mercy’s stamped across the cover in red ink.
I ran my hand over the top of our phone machine, felt the coolness of the plastic against my fingers. I played the outgoing message over and over. The message kept looping in my mind, and eventually I couldn’t tell where Larry’s voice was coming from.
It was an unusually cool day for November.
I took out my bottle of Shalimar, unscrewed the top, and poured the contents over Larry’s grave. It was absorbed immediately.
Off to my left, a funeral was in progress.
I watched the mass of bodies huddle together for warmth, saw the rabbi’s mouth move, but was too far away to hear. I closed my eyes and conjured up each person who attended Larry’s funeral. I visualized the way we stood in silence, how I was sandwiched between Larry’s mother and mine, how close friends and relatives stood haphazardly around the coffin. I remembered how Larry’s mother heaved a shovel full of dirt onto her son’s coffin, her face pale beneath her makeup.
I looked for the most grief-stricken person in the group. It was a woman in her late thirties, like myself. She was easy to pick out. Like the secret club I had been initiated into, we were all able to detect each other.
I had thought about joining the mourners, ached to be with strangers whose pain I could share, and for a moment, I was jealous. I wanted to be the woman who donned the dark veil. I wanted my hand gripped tightly by sympathetic friends, my body held by caring relatives. Instead, I made eye contact with a tall man.
I followed him to the men’s room and waited for him to come out, knowing he was perfect. From the back he looked just like my husband. I almost expected Larry to emerge from the restroom, hands damp, fingers fiddling with his belt.
He was surprised to see me waiting for him, even asked if I was feeling ill. I held out my hand, appearing as though I needed assistance.
He said his name was George, and I repeated it as we fucked.
“George, George, George.”
The stone felt cold and bumpy. George constantly looked up, making sure the mourners had not left without him. “I only have a few minutes,” he said.
George was my favorite. His body was clean and fresh and fit with mine like Larry’s used to. Same build, same features. His feet dangled over my toes, as his hands held my left arm over my head and pinned it down. My right hand ran instinctively through his thick, black hair, crept like a claw under his jacket and shirt, and down his smooth, silky back. I resurrected the fresh Clorox smell of Larry’s clothes, heard the way he’d say my name, like the way he said hello on our answering machine. George uttered my name, too. Rhythmically, over and over, just as I directed.
“I love you,” I whispered.
George came quickly. I winced in pain as he pulled out.
“Sorry,” he offered, pulling up his pants. Then, looking like a soldier in battle, the tombstones his protective shield, he checked his post. When he was sure all was safe, he jumped up and walked briskly toward the moving group.
Minutes later, I brushed dead leaves off my clothing, picked out the ones that collected in my hair, and fixed my skirt. I only wore skirts now—they made life easier for both the men and me.
I buttoned my coat and searched for another body.
It didn’t take long. The cemetery was busy that day.
I walked up to a man who was standing with a newspaper, briefcase, and a computer-printed map the cemetery had provided of the newly converted section.
I placed my gloved hand over his, laid another on his arm, and leaned in close enough for him to smell Larry’s cologne. “You look lost. Would you like me to show you the way?” I smiled and pressed my body into his. I felt his newspaper brush across my thigh. He stared at me, and said he was looking for the Gurshen plot, section 330, row AD.
His hat covered his head, sunglasses hid his eyes. I saw my reflection, a distorted image, my brown hair askew, lipstick smeared.
“I can find it myself,” he said.
His face was so close to mine that I felt his breath up against my skin. It tingled, filled me. I wanted to suck him in.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you anyway.”
He turned and took a few steps. I had been staring at his back, unable to move, caught mesmerized by the brown leaves that had attached themselves to the cuffs of his trousers. Watched as they dragged along with him. He suddenly looked over his shoulder, and I thought he had changed his mind. Saw the error he had made, the opportunity he might miss.
He just stood there, glaring at me. Then turned and quickly walked away.
I tried calling friends. I wanted to reach out, but I couldn’t listen to the background voices of babies and spouses. When Larry’s partner in his practice, Boyd, called, insisting we have dinner, I forced myself to go. At first it felt good to be out in a normal setting. People chatting, intoxicating smells wafting through me.
We sat in a booth, waiting. It was as if Larry were running late and had called, telling us to go ahead and order, that he’d get to the restaurant when he could. It was a familiar scene. The three of us out to dinner, me in the middle, Larry on my right, Boyd on my left.
“So, how are you doing?”
I shrugged, kept my eye on the door. Anything was possible.
“It gets easier.” Boyd cradled his face in his right hand, his left inching its way to mine. He ran his index finger back and forth over my thumb, pressed the pads of our fingers together, my wedding band catching the light off the chandelier.
The food felt heavy in my mouth, the restaurant loud, Italian music reverberating in my head.
An hour later we sat in his car, listening to light FM. My street dark and quiet.
“This just feels right, Leslie,” Boyd said, his hand on my thigh. “Don’t you think he’d want you to be happy… ” His voice trailed off. “Could I come in?”
I thought of Jacob, of Roman, lives I’d touched, offered something to men who really understood grief.
When I finally answered him, my voice came out like a scratching sound. “Thanks for a lovely time,” I said, car door open, foot already on the pavement. I went inside, called for Larry, and defrosted a Lean Cuisine.
At night I sat in our den, smelling Larry. Sometimes I slept in his leather chair, other nights I slept on the couch in his sweater. His robe, a blanket. I couldn’t eat. Food tasted like metal. I stood looking in the bathroom mirror, counting my bones, resembling the bodies I visited. People at work kept asking if I was all right.
When I met with clients to show them new homes, they looked at me strangely, as if I were diseased.
My boss suggested I take a vacation. Why? So I could spend more time at home listening to my own breathing, arranging and rearranging Larry’s ties? I’d fold and refold his socks, put them in order of color. Then I’d organize them according to seasons—thin, crepe ones for summer in the back, thick, heavy wool ones for winter in the front.
I had dressed Larry in his navy blue suit, the one he wore when making speeches or accepting awards. I’d even remembered his favorite socks, his “lucky pair,” he’d call them. Once black with white piping, they were now a faded brown and barely stitched together. He would wear them to his weekly poker game, and to operations he feared were risky. He had worn these on our first date, and during the first time we made love, insisting he keep them on. I kept trying to take them off with my toes, finally pushing the right one down to his ankle and inching it off his heel. I was still working on the left one when his roommate walked in on us. Larry jumped up, leaping for the door, naked except for the one sock.
I spent most of December sifting through department stores, looking for the perfect gift for Larry. What do you buy the man who needs nothing? I walked aimlessly, listening to Christmas Muzak sung by dead crooners while people stared at me. Bing Crosby, Judy Garland, Elvis all assured me this was a wonderful life. Well intended salespeople, overweight schoolgirls who smacked gum in my ear, fast-talking women with high-pitched voices, and middle-aged men dressed in last year’s suits all offered advice and made comments regarding my purchases. I decided on a black cashmere sweater, 40 M. “I love a man in a black turtleneck,” the sales woman said, winking, as if in on a secret. “And cashmere feels so good on the skin, don’t you think?” She took my credit card, rang it through, and handed it back to me.
Harold was old. I wasn’t sure how old, but he had an odor that elderly people carry with them, known only to passersby, a silent understanding that soon his time will be up. Even his name sounded old. His lips were cracked, and his smell almost made me sick. When we kissed, he kept his mouth closed. His head was bald with brown age spots. I kissed it. It tasted salty and reminded me of the ocean air. Most of Harold’s body was wrinkled and hairless except for small bits in his ears and some darker patches on his genitals. He seemed so fragile that all I did was hold his penis in my hand. He told me about his wife, Elsa. About their sixty-year marriage, how he was supposed to die first, how he wasn’t there when she tripped and fell and that he came home just in time to see the body being carried away. At night he prays that God will take him, too. He cannot go on without her. He claims to hear her weep at night. That she calls to him. I held him in my arms for a long time, and let him cry. I was afraid to tell him that it was Larry’s voice that woke me in the morning rather than the deafening sound of my alarm. That it was his voice I fell asleep to even though the news anchor’s perfectly pronounced words came out clearly through the TV speaker.
Heavy, wet flakes of snow clumped together, making the cemetery look like a huge quilt. It was quiet that last day and you could hear the snow falling, blanketing the graves. It was so cold the air seemed to freeze in my lungs. It hurt to breathe.
Because of the terrible weather, the cemetery was empty. As always, I said hello to Larry first before searching for another human being. I walked aimlessly, the burial ground taking on a dizzying effect. Each path looked the same, each tombstone similar. Bodies after bodies, so many decaying, lonely souls.
In my frantic search for someone, I practically fell over Kelsey.
Dressed in a light gray trench coat and matching umbrella, it was almost impossible to differentiate between him and the snow.
I led him back to Larry’s grave, telling him the ground was softer there, that under the snow were patches of thick grass. Our bodies collided and sank into the dense, wet flakes. Water seeped into my clothes. The snow was cold but padded my thin frame. Larry was so close, only several feet away, encased in the mahogany coffin I had picked out.
Sex with Kelsey was hard and sharp, as if he were punishing me for something. I wanted to cry out but he put a callused hand over my mouth and whispered for me to be still.
He smelled like bug spray and reminded me of my days at sleepaway camp. His body felt terribly heavy on top of mine, like the dead weight of an animal. Not like Larry at all. And I thought perhaps he was trying to squeeze the life out of me.
When he was ready to leave, I grabbed his body, forced him down, and squeezed my arms around him as powerfully as possible. He struggled for a second, his face panicked and angry.
“Hey, what are you doing?” He reached behind himself with his arms, trying to pull mine apart. He rolled me over, and like a slug, tried to shake me off. Even in my weakened condition, my bone-like skeleton, I was strong and fought as if this were the most important thing in my life, as if I were offering up a soul, trading one man in for another. “Take this one and give me back what’s mine.”
Kelsey rammed his head into my nose. I heard a crack and released my grip. He jumped up.
“Jesus Christ, lady.” He popped open his umbrella. “Get some fucking help.”
I heard his feet crunching in the snow until the sound faded.
Then nothing.
I didn’t know how many hours it had been since Kelsey left but there was a terrible throbbing in my nose. A dog barked in the distance; the sky got darker. I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes.
Snow started to fall, blanketing me. They would probably find my body once it melted. Another mourner would stumble upon me. A small piece of my coat, or my shoe, would catch their eye. They’d come closer, crouch down, brush the remaining slush off my frozen face. My eyes would stare back, hollow and dead; my lips blue, my skin pale and thin.
I drifted, woke, and drifted off again.
The Way You Left
“Men are like the crap dental floss removes from your teeth,” I remind myself aloud, and hence the lady standing next to me, as we both wait on a ridiculously long line at the Food Emporium.
“Men change their minds, leave the best women they know, and ruin their lives, not to mention ours.” I look at my shopping colleague, who nods empathetically as she takes a small step backward.
For the past six days I’ve thrown myself a pity party and, needless to say, I was the only attendee. But last night at 4:00 a.m. I had a breakthrough. Or breakdown. Somewhere between Oprah, Springer, and Ricki reruns I had a revelation. Some people do a spring cleaning of clothing. My older sister, Gwen, does a cleaning of her friends. I did one of my fridge. I threw out all of Jed’s must-have items: truffles from Balducci’s, caviar from Zabar’s, escargots in thick, sweet oil from Eli’s. I poured out the decadent containers filled with mini-olives, capers, and onions into the sink. Then I turned on the water and watched the confluence swirl into a brown mess and slowly disappear down the drain.
I inch up to the cashier, laying the frozen waffles, skim milk, and M&M’s on the conveyor belt. It’s not real food but it’s a start.
I open the bag of M&M’s, dig around for some red ones, and pop them into my mouth.
“This all you buying?” the register lady snaps as I pull out my checkbook. “You can’t use that for less than twenty dollars.” She flashes a nasty smile: her teeth are outlined in gold.
I don’t want to get into an argument but I’m not terribly excited to stare at a barren closet, blank dresser drawers, and sit in a half-empty apartment. I take a stab and sign the check. She stares at me, mumbles something in Spanish I can’t understand, and slithers away, calling for the manager. In her absence, she’s left an open register and a line of angry customers behind me. I eat the last red M&M and pick up a copy of TV Guide. The cover reads “Meet Today’s Nelson Family,” with four people, two mothers and their respective non-binary children, underneath the headline. Absorbed in the article, I don’t realize how quiet the store has become until it’s too late. People have stopped talking, cash registers have stopped ringing, and an uneasy hum is heard. I look up to find three men dressed in black, standing in the middle of the market. Each is holding a large, shiny gun. The one in the middle steps forward.
“This is a stick-up. If nobody wants to get hurt, shot, or disfigured you better all shut up.” His voice has a deep, booming quality which resonates down the aisles. A surreal whirl of words that make no sense hangs in the air. The robber on the right looks nervous. He’s shaking and coughing and looking around as if he’s forgotten something. Our eyes meet. They look scared yet sturdy, and are an incredible blue, a mix of sea and sky. They’re the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. In fact, he sort of takes my breath away.
I look around to see what the other shoppers are doing. Except for a few retired old men, most are panic-stricken women, trust fund babies, those on maternity leave, and bored bridge players. I smile at Blue-Eyes and it looks like he’s about to smile back when his partner yells, “Everybody down on the ground with your heads to the floor.” An edgy anger has filled his voice.
