The Joy of Funerals, page 21
While everyone is eating and crying and milling about, I sneak upstairs.
Paying respects at a relative’s home is like finding a secret stash of candy. I can’t help but inspect each room, search through cabinets and dresser drawers, look through scrapbooks and photo albums filled with old Kodak memories: my grandmother and her siblings sunning at the Breakers Country Club, my father’s twelfth birthday party, my aunt and uncle’s wedding photos, my cousins playing in the sand. Snap. A moment is captured. Tangible evidence of time. Proof of existence. Validation.
I snoop in the hope of finding answers about who they are; I search for something which will connect me to them.
I enter Vicki’s room first. The bed and carpet have been replaced but the bulletin board and mirror over her vanity table still ring of her adolescence. The mirror is smattered with moments from her college years, the bulletin board proudly displays ribbons from horseback riding competitions and swim meets. I run my hand over her dresser. A slew of old tapes and loose change are in a basket, a stack of holiday cards held together with a rubber band is in the drawer. To a wonderful daughter on her birthday, Happy Valentine’s Day, Congrats on your graduation. Two decades old, these things still prove this is her room. There are other clues, too. An old wallet with foreign currency, school yearbooks, a box of old lipsticks.
At my grandfather’s funeral, Vicki was out of cigarettes and let me tag along with her in the car to get more. The convertible was a mess. Cigarette butts were spilling out of the ashtray, bright red and pink lipstick marks on the tips. There were empty soda cans strewn about, paper bags from fast food drive-throughs and lots of used napkins. Books, clothing, and boxes littered the back seat.
I sat in the car, motor running, while she paid for the smokes at the convenience store. I was about to look through the glove compartment when she came back. Like a well-choreographed number, she hit the car lighter with the palm of her hand, unwrapped the box of Parliaments, tapped the packet a few times on the dashboard, and removed a single cigarette in perfect time for the lighter knob to pop out. She rolled down the window, puffed on the cigarette, and started to cry.
I didn’t know what to do or say. I didn’t know why she was crying. I didn’t think it was over my grandfather, considering the fact that no one liked him. I just sat there watching her as she flicked ashes out the window. Then I reached for her hand, the one that rested on the clutch. I placed mine on top of hers, noticed her iridescent, salmon-colored nails were all chipped and that her skin was dry. She wore silver rings and the tops of my fingers rested on them. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the seat.
“You want a puff?” she asked. I couldn’t believe she was talking to me.
“Sure,” I said, and placed my lips directly over the mark her lipstick had made. Visible instructions. Then she told me to breathe in and swallow a little smoke, which made me cough. She laughed while she shook several cans of Coke, searching for one that felt half full, and handed it to me.
Before we reentered my aunt’s house, Vicki ate Mentos and reapplied lipstick. She caught me staring and when she was finished, tossed it to me.
She leaned forward and for a second, I thought she was going to help. Instead, she flipped down the mirror above my head. I ran the iridescent pink color over my lips, careful not to press too hard, careful not to break it. It hurt to hand it back and I remember thinking if she really cared about me she’d have let me keep it. She would have given it to me as a gift, and I would have carried it everywhere and never used it except on special occasions. But she extended her hand, an unspoken gesture to return it.
Once inside the house, she went into her parents’ room and locked herself in. I stood outside for a moment, ear pressed to the door. I heard her pick up the phone. Heard her talking to someone. Heard her slipping away.
I look for the Revlon lipstick she let me use years ago. Velvet Rose is here, as if it’s been waiting for me. I apply it quickly to my lips, taste the history, then stick it in my jacket pocket.
David’s room is next. His has been turned into a work area/gym. A treadmill is in the corner, along with dumbbells and a rolled-up exercise mat. Robert’s room has been converted into the guest room. A masculine version of Vicki’s, without the personalized items.
The hallway wall is a timeline in pictures. My aunt and uncle’s wedding day, them at my parents’ wedding, Delia pregnant with Robert, David, Vicki, my uncle standing beside her, and on and on. The children playing in a pile of leaves, the children at a graduation, more marriages, more births, more family moments.
The attic is too dusty to tamper with, so I head back downstairs and join the land of the living. My aunt’s friend is talking to my mother and when she sees me, she motions with her hand to sit down next to her.
“When my husband died, I told our maid I wasn’t coming home until everything sickness-related had been removed from the apartment.” The woman takes a deep breath. “I wanted his medications thrown out, the sheets stripped and gone, I wanted flowers in every room so that when I walked in, nothing of my husband’s illness was there. I only wanted to be surrounded by happy things.” She slaps the top of the coffee table. “Remember only the good.” Then she beams as if she’s said something fantastic. She nods to others for approval, a hint of understanding.
“You’re right, Lanny,” my mother says, placing a hand on her thigh. “You took care of him for years. You should only be surrounded by pleasant objects.”
I get up and excuse myself. I can feel my mother’s eyes on me, assessing my outfit, my hair, feel her disappointment burn through my jacket and onto my skin.
I walk into the kitchen, open the refrigerator, look for something—I’m not sure what—and when I come up empty handed, shut the door. I saunter back into the living room and realize something has happened in my absence.
My uncle has leaned forward and is resting his elbows on his knees, one hand covers his eyes, the other holds a shaking glass. His brother is sitting next to him, his hand pressed firmly on his back. David comes over and removes the glass from his father’s hand. I watch my mother bite down on her lip and shake her head. My father stands behind her and rests a hand on her shoulder. For the first time in years, I see her take his. She pats it first, then grips his fingers. Everyone is very still, as if a photographer has said, Hold please, now say cheese.
I find Vicki outside in a lounge chair, a wool blanket wrapped around her. She’s crying in between puffs of smoke and sips of vodka. I stand a good two minutes, watching her, before I open the screen door and walk out onto the deck. I sit down next to her, drape my coat over me, my arms in backward. I’m allowed out here today when normally someone would tell me to leave her alone. But I have earned this right from birth, from the very minute of conception. No matter how left out I am in real life, today I have privileges.
She passes me her cigarette, then her glass. I accept them graciously. I’ve graduated from soda. We both have.
The days slip and melt into each other. Moments pass like breaths. Hours, like the blinking of an eye. I have nothing to hold on to, nothing to prove anything has happened.
Each morning I wake to a familiar sadness. I look at the calendar, count the days to my period. I’m not due for another three weeks. This melancholy is attributed to something else entirely.
I’ve been nibbling on Halloween candy all week. It’s in a big glass bowl by the front door. Even though cartoon characters, forest animals, and not-so-scary-looking monsters will ring my bell in two days, it sits ready for the asking, the stash disappearing little by little.
The days are getting cold and the sun seems to be vanishing unfairly earlier. In another month, families will be bonding over glazed hams and Butterball turkeys, sitting at elongated tables with their pants unbuttoned.
I flip channels endlessly, hoping to catch something entertaining.
I’m tired of being alone. Tired of watching the clock change from 10:52 a.m. to 10:53 to 10:54, excited only by upcoming TV shows. Actors and cast members are the people who know me. Those are the people I spend my day with. They keep me company. They are dependable. They appear on time.
I walk around my apartment, look at the clock: 8:38 p.m., and stare out the window. I look through my phone for people I can call.
With my parents away for the week in Montreal, I go into work, bags under my eyes, a fake smile on my face. I haven’t slept in days because I’m having nightmares where I wake up in a panic, body drenched in sweat, hands shaking, mouth fighting for air. I’ll be standing or sitting in a filled chapel, a different one each time, and like in the movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers, someone points and their mouth opens wide but all that comes out is an inaudible shriek. Everyone’s heads turn and people join in the chorus of cries. They are deafening and I run, the procession of people chasing after me wildly, like rabid dogs.
I greet a few people, chat with Lilly for a bit, check my desk, return messages, and sort through some mail before retiring to my father’s office where I draw the blinds, dim the lights, turn off the ringer, and try to sleep on his couch. The office buzz calms me. I like the idea of being surrounded by activity. I sleep well here.
Hours later, I wake; the office is dark, and everyone has gone home. It’s well after midnight. I walk up and down the hallway, then break into a skip and start to sing like I longed to do as a child when my mother and I would visit. I jump into one of the chairs and roll around until I get bored. Then I snoop through people’s desks. When I get to Shannon’s, I stop. Her space is too neat, the mail piled too high. From the looks of it, she hasn’t been in for days.
I sit in her chair, sink into the molded incline of her seat, and think how much bigger her body must be compared to mine.
There are no photos on her desk. No group shots at a park or restaurant celebrating someone’s birthday. Nothing with her and a friend traveling to exotic ports of call or to foreign countries. There’s just a black Phantom of the Opera mug which holds pens and pencils. A note taped to the blotter reads, Out sick. Please leave a message or call Benita Thompson for help.
While sifting through her “in” box I find several days worth of the Times. I turn to today’s obits. The section is weak at best. Not many people have died since yesterday. Nevertheless, I skim the page to see if anyone sounds interesting. There’s a service for a veterinarian, another for a chef, and one for a librarian. I retrieve yesterday’s section from her box. Not much happens on a Tuesday. It seems to be the least exciting day to pay respects.
The one story I have been following is the recent murder of five women in the East Village area. The New York Post and news shows call him the Diner Killer. The last to be recovered was a forty-three-year-old photographer. The funerals have been closed to the public for obvious reasons and many haven’t had a viewing because the bodies are still considered evidence. The families have had to wait weeks to bury their loved ones, or they’ve held memorials for the spirit, not the body. This is the case with Annette Rowen.
The paper says friends and family will be holding a four-day remembrance for Annette at her cousin’s home in SoHo. I’ve missed the first day, which was Sunday. Tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday are when the other evenings are taking place.
I love several-day sittings. I call them carry-overs. These are not so rare. People usually mourn for several days, offering friends and family a choice of options for the modern person with late meetings and crazy appointments to fit into their busy schedules. Last year I went to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Gardner, the parents of a high school teen who’d overdosed on crystal meth. The vigil lasted all week. I went every day after work and sat with the same group from 6:30 to 9:30. They fed me dinner, read me his term papers, showed me his varsity jacket. By the end of the week, I was clearing plates and doing dishes. I’d practically moved in.
The paper says Annette is remembered by her parents, brother, and her partner, Karen. I clear my mind and prepare myself. I spend several hours researching her past work, reading articles that used her photographs, learning about certain techniques, and honing my camera skills.
I’d taken a few photography classes at Sarah Lawrence, but my photos were either too blurry or overexposed, and I could never figure out the aperture versus film speed.
I want to wear something artsy and fashionable but my hand reaches for a conservative black turtleneck sweater and black wool pants. The obit doesn’t read like it’s a traditional party. It’s in SoHo and sounds laid-back. I visualize a huge loft filled with other artsy people, all in different types of clothing to help express who they really are.
I have a very good feeling about this and rush around the apartment excitedly, like I’m going on a date. I wear some of my jewelry, put a few extra bracelets into small plastic bags in case I want to give them out as gifts. I could nonchalantly say I was delivering them off at one of the stores I sell to and these were extras. Please, it would be my honor for you to have it.
The subway drops me off several blocks from the loft, and I pick up two bottles of wine at the liquor store. Since there’s no service I feel as though I shouldn’t come empty-handed.
The cousin, Patti, an environmental lawyer, lives in an industrial building, and I ride in a creaky, rundown elevator where you have to close and open an oversized metal gate. As I travel upward, I can hear voices getting louder and excitement builds inside as I lurch to the eleventh floor. I lift the gate up and step out into the apartment, instantly becoming part of the action. Heads turn to see who has arrived.
The loft is huge and space is sectioned off by furniture, Pottery Barn and Crate & Barrel style, large and heavy. There are no walls aside from the four which hold the place up. People stand by the window, some in the kitchen area. Several women are seated in three long couches in the middle of the enormous space. Others are standing by the dining room table, filling their plates. As far as I can tell, there are no men.
As predicted, it’s an ethnic, artsy mix. Far less traditional than I’ve been to in a while. Not one suit can be found. Many are in jeans, leather jackets, suede shirts, lots of sweaters and skirts, leopard this and tiger-print that. Vintage vests and long shawl things, pointed shoes and granola sandals, make this event feel like a book club in Woodstock rather than a memorial. My eyes glance around quickly, taking in the earthy women to see if I can pick out Patti or Karen.
I take a step forward, the gate snaps shut. I hear the creaky grind as the elevator reels back down.
An attractive, friendly woman with pixie-styled, dirty-blond hair greets me. Her apron reads Don’t be fooled. I’m not really domesticated.
“Welcome. I’m Patti. Can I take your coat?”
‘’I’m Candice, here,” I say, and hand over the bottles.
“Oh, thanks. We’ve been going through wine like water. I think everyone here is on a liquid diet today.” She laughs. I do, too. And it is sealed. A business deal based on emotions.
”I’m so sorry to have heard about Annette.”
“Thank you.”
“What a sick thing for someone to do.”
“Come in—let’s introduce you to everyone. Have you met Karen yet?”
“No.” I lower my voice a little, make my tone more intimate. “How’s she holding up?”
“Okay, I guess. We’re all still in shock.”
I follow her into her bedroom, which is also sectioned-off by pieces of furniture. Two tall dressers and huge, double-sided mirrors, which hang from thick wire and are attached to the ceiling, help separate this area from the living room.
I hand her my blazer and wool raincoat, which she drops on the bed with the others. I’m suddenly very tired. I’d love to lie down right here with the coats.
I shake my head. “I still can’t believe it. It’s so surreal.”
Patti leads me to the living room area where most of the women reside. Several are perched comfortably on the couches; others sit on the floor, their backs leaning up against the furniture. They are gripping each other’s hands, sitting close and stroking hair; heads are resting in laps. Some have their shoes off, some are smoking, everyone’s hand holds a glass. Empty wine bottles are on a nearby coffee table.
In the far corner resides a projector and large screen. Next to it is a TV on mute, while a stereo, in another corner, is playing light jazz. The whole thing feels so comfortable and familiar. I half expect Glenn Close and JoBeth Williams to come out from the kitchen, arms laden with dishes and pasta salad.
I have already picked Karen out before Patti formally introduces me. My hunch is she’s the one sitting close to another woman, looking extra drawn.
“Everyone, this is Candice—Candice, everyone.”
I get a 12-step hello. The woman I picked as Annette’s partner stands.
“Hi. I’m Karen. Thank you for coming.”
“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. I’m just sorry I wasn’t here on Sunday. I was closing at the magazine and there was no way to leave, even on a weekend.”
“Oh, is that how you knew her?”
“Yeah. A few years ago I worked on the editorial side when she was working in the photo department at National Geographic.” The woman on the end of the couch looks uncomfortable; the woman seated on the floor looks lonely; another, who is standing, seems angry. I label and break them down quickly, systematically collating them into the Seven Dwarfs and stop at Grumpy. She looks like Patti Smith and sounds like Stevie Nicks. She’s talking with her hands, sitting on the couch, legs crossed, glass of wine resting on a vintage trunk in front of her. She’s dressed in black jeans and denim shirt with a baby-T underneath. Her dark hair is layered and wavy. She’s animated and smart and talks very fast. She’s totally self-absorbed as she criticizes someone in her office who she finds lacks common sense. She is selfish, angry, and unhappy, yet has the ability to be nurturing. I can tell all this instantly. She’s perfect.
