The Joy of Funerals, page 22
The thinking here is to find the most removed person and get them to love me. If I can win them over, make them care about me even though they don’t want to, then I’ve accomplished the impossible. I’ve made them change. Up is down, left is right, and everything suddenly feels safe.
“I mean, give me a fucking break,” she says loudly, as if on a debate team. “She’s one of those people who goes to the movies to be entertained. What the hell is that? Film is a fucking experience. If you want to laugh, go to a goddamn comedy club.”
“I hate people who can’t handle depressing movies,” says the woman behind me. I spin around. “It’s like, excuse me for making you feel.”
If I’m going to impress her, I’ve got to work fast. “These are like the people who live within a five-block radius from all of their conservative, unrealistic, Republican friends on the Upper East Side in co-ops, who are all unfathomably clueless as to how the real world actually works. Right?”
“Yeah,” she says.
Our eyes lock. A showdown. I remember to follow the four Be’s: be funny, sarcastically witty, smart, and helpful.
“Congratulations, you’ve just met my parents.” My deadpan expression becomes a knowing smile. Everyone roars. I even get a few claps.
She lifts her glass in my direction—touché.
“Candice, let me break down the group a little. This is Joanna, Susan, Wes, and our soapbox mediator, Sloan. Over there is Lisa, Dylan, and Ann.”
Sloan and I stand on opposite sides of Patti’s elongated, Amish looking dining room table, complete with wooden benches, as we fill our plates. Pizza boxes, a six-foot hero sandwich, and bowls of Greek salad are at the head and foot of the table. Plates, napkins, utensils, and wine and soda are in the middle.
A woman shimmies by and reaches for the open bottle. She pours the remaining contents into her glass. “I think between Sunday and today, I’ve finished this whole thing by myself.”
A sharp pang of panic starts in my chest and I fear I’ve missed something. The world moved ever so slightly without my help or knowledge. Like the kid who transferred school midyear and has already missed the important bonding moments, the ones that cement friendships and create history, I, too, have been left behind. All the cliques have been formed.
I’m careful not to become Sloan’s shadow and make a point of chatting with several other women. Wes and Joanna have been together for eight years, Patti is single and straight, Sue is Annette’s ex, but she and Karen are very friendly, and on and on. Each woman has a story to tell. And I want to know them all.
Later, we sit through a showing of Annette’s work.
Someone closes the drapes, another dims the lights, everyone gets comfortable.
By the fifth slide, Karen’s voice has lulled me into a deep calm. The click of the projector and the changing of the slides is hypnotic.
I’m sitting next to Sloan, who has her feet up on the trunk, and I’ve copied her position. We’ve scrunched together to make room for Dani, another of Annette’s friends. We are sorority women in search of a theme song.
When a photo of Angkor Wat appears that I recognize from one of the magazines I’ve researched, I sit up, pull my feet off the trunk. I talk excitedly, one hand pointing to the screen. “That’s the photo we used from the Cambodia article. We worked on it for months.” I look to Karen. “This must be about three years old, right?”
“About that,” she answers.
“I remember what a trauma that issue was. The magazine barely scraped by.”
“Really?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I answer quickly, “on a production level, that is.”
Everyone is looking at me.
“Annette didn’t mention any problems.” There’s a hint of anger in her voice.
“Sure. She was photo. Text is a whole other story. No pun intended.” A few people laugh. “Photo is shipped first,” I say, adding more authority to my voice. “I used to bitch about story deadlines each month. Finally, I threatened to go over to Annette’s side if things didn’t improve. Believe me, put a camera in my hands and you’re looking at rolls and rolls of film with out-of focus thumbs in each frame.”
I’m silent for the rest of the show. I’ve exceeded my limit.
“See you in eleven hours,” I joke once we get out of the elevator.
As usual, I’m one of the last to leave. Only Sloan, Karen, and two other friends of Patti’s remain upstairs.
The eight of us hug each other good-bye. The embraces are honest and filled with emotion. I hate to leave but am reassured by the fact that I’ll be back tomorrow, and the day after that.
It’s cold and rainy outside. I can see my breath, a subtle hint that we’re in for a long, brutal winter. Many came armed with trench coats and umbrellas; they break off into pairs, a new version of Noah’s ark, and disperse into different directions.
At home I feel a little lonely, but in an okay way. It’s been a very intense day and I’m glad to see the apartment. I shower, wash my hair, shave, and give myself a facial. Then I concentrate on making Sloan something from my jewelry stash. She mentioned she loves jewelry, but the artsy kind that I was wearing. I was sure to explain that I’d left the magazine to pursue my interests in jewelry design, but still freelance from time to time as an editor. Everyone seemed impressed with my work. I even took a few orders from some of the women, wrote down their addresses, made notes regarding what they wanted.
I do more research online, trying to review every issue of the magazine that Annette and I would have worked on together. I call National Geographic and listen to the monotone operator rattle off the names of editors who work there now, just in case. I memorize the list as I fall asleep.
I wake up excited but anxious to go back to Patti’s to reconnect after the intense bonding experience we all shared.
These moments, if done correctly, are like first kisses, warm and unforgettable. Impossible to erase. I’ll be there today to remind them of what occurred yesterday. To validate it, make them recall the incident.
I’ve put in a full day of work and it’s nearly 7:00 p.m. when I arrive. I say hi and kiss some of the women hello—the ones I became especially close with yesterday. I love being here and feel instantly welcome.
I look for Sloan and find her talking to Wes in the kitchen.
The first few minutes are awkward. I’m not sure what to say and don’t want to come on too strong. The rules for “Follow the Leader” apply and I take a step back, waiting for her to receive me.
“Hey, Candice,” she says.
It’s a warm greeting. My insides relax as I reach for the wine.
Karen is dozing on the loveseat.
“She must be exhausted,” I say nudging Sloan. We stare at her for a second. “We should help clean up.”
We remove glasses from the coffee table and stereo unit, pick up empty wine bottles from the floor, dirty ashtrays overflowing with cigarette buts. I steady myself a few times, not realizing how tipsy I am until I start to move around.
“I wonder if there’s something we can do with Annette’s photos?” I throw out to the group. “Maybe put together a show of her work to honor her memory?”
“Karen would love that,” Wes answers, getting a foot massage from Joanna. “Among all of us here, we must have a million connections.”
“What we saw last night was just a highlight. Annette was quite a shutterbug,” Patti adds. A consensus starts to form as people give their ideas and make suggestions.
“We could do a charity event, set up a victim’s fund,” I offer before following Sloan into the kitchen with the glasses and ashtrays.
“Can you feel the synergy?” I joke, as I stack empty take-out cartons.
Sloan looks at me, her head slightly tilted, her glass earring dancing back and forth. “It’s a fabulous idea, but do you think it’s too soon to honor her work?”
I stare at her face, look for who she is, how she feels about me.
“Candice,” she’s smiling, “is it too soon? What do you think?”
What do I think? That all of life is spent looking for the one person to make you whole, to give you what you’ve been missing your entire, pathetic life. Instead, I say, ‘’I’m thinking of art galleries and media people I could call.” I’ve disappointed her and myself.
Sloan pushes hair behind my ear. “You should get all this taken off. You’d look great with short hair.”
“Really?” I reply.
“Yeah. My husband says shorter is sexier. It’s just one more secret straight men keep from women.”
I swallow hard. Sloan reminds me of everything I want. Of all I’m missing and that which is obtainable. Will you love me? I want to ask her. Will you let me be part of your life even though you don’t know me? Even though you just met me yesterday. Will you stay?
“You know what we should do?” She’s moved on to something else, her hands reach for the sponge. “Patti has an amazing roof. We had weekly barbecues here last summer.”
She’s cleaning the counter now. “We should go up, get some air.”
She tosses the sponge into the sink, wipes her hands on the towel, then reaches for an open bottle of red and two glasses.
I follow her out onto the roof deck. We are tipsy and wobble up the stairs laughing, like sisters would. I almost want to say, Remember that time we got in trouble for coming home drunk from that party my last year of college? Mom was so mad.
The roof door bangs open and I follow her to the edge. One step forward is all it takes. The cold air is slightly sobering. I see my breath. It reminds me of smoking; a cigarette would be great right now. I look out into the night. The neighboring buildings look like a checkerboard with the pattern of lights on and off.
“I wonder what everyone in that building is doing right this minute,” I say.
“Half are having sex, the other half are wishing they were having sex.”
We laugh, drink more wine.
“This is really nice,” she says, reaching for my necklace. “Did you make this?”
I nod. “You want it?” I’m still laughing as I reach behind my neck to unhook the clasp. Sloan places a hand on my chest, holds the turquoise stone in place.
“No, I was just saying it was pretty.” She keeps her hand there until the tears are deep in my throat, until I feel as if I could choke on them. I try to push them back down, almost strike a bargain with God. Let me get through this without crying, and I’ll go back into therapy. Her other hand comes up to my forehead and her fingers brush hair away from my face. I close my eyes, caught between giving in and fighting. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, I scream silently inside my head. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. I wonder if she can hear me, read my thoughts. They seem so visible. Sound so loud. I visualize them leaking out through my ears, tearing from my eyes.
“I miss her, too,” she says. “She meant a lot to all of us.”
“It’s more than that.” My voice cracks. Just tell her. Just say it. “These have been really intense days. And I feel lucky to have made new friends. I think that would please Annette.”
She smiles a little, then takes a step back, picks up the wine bottle, and notices it’s empty. “We’re out of supplies.”
Don’t go.
‘’I’ll get more,” she adds, turning away. In the darkness I can hardly see her face.
Don’t leave.
“You coming or do you want to stay out here for a few?”
“Can we get together sometime?”
She’s already walking away. “Sure. When this is all over.”
“Great.” My voice is lost over the sounds of the dark city—cars buzzing by, dogs barking, a couple fighting on the street. I follow her down the stairs. She first, then me. We are not together anymore, our intimacy gone. Our intensity broken. It doesn’t matter. She said yes, and even if she doesn’t mean it, or means it now at this moment but won’t remember saying it tomorrow, it’s what I needed to hear.
It’s something to hold on to.
Day three and I arrive early enough to seem supportive, but late enough not to look too eager. I’ve also come armed with a caramel cake from Greenberg’s.
The smell of freshly baked cookies wafts into Patti’s elevator as it brings me closer to the eleventh floor. I step out and instantly, something feels wrong. At first I think it’s because only a few people are here—die-hard friends from her inner clan. But that’s not it. The air is thick, the room cold.
I walk into the bedroom with the intention of dropping off my coat and accidentally find Karen and Patti. Their eyes are red. The conversation halts.
“Anything I can do?” I offer, placing my jacket with the others.
“No. We’re okay.”
“It’s hard,” Patti adds, “last day and all.”
I walk out and catch Sloan entering the bathroom.
She’s left the door open, and I knock on the frame. “Hey.”
Her face is temporarily hidden by the medicine cabinet door, and she doesn’t greet me until she slams it shut. A bottle of Tylenol is in her hand.
“I needed aspirin,” she explains.
In her tipsy state she has trouble opening it. She laughs at first—it’s very funny to her. A few seconds later, Sloan is banging the top part down on the sink.
“I can’t believe Patti doesn’t have Advil,” she yells over the sound of pills shaking against plastic.
Giving up, she throws the bottle to the floor. I pick it up, twist the top off, and hand her two white capsules. I fill her empty wineglass with water, put that in her waiting palm, and close the bathroom door.
“Thanks.” She starts to sway back and forth and steadies herself against the wall.
“You okay?”
She nods, swallows hard.
“Maybe we should stay in here for a bit,” I suggest. The words are barely out of my mouth when Sloan slides to the floor.
We sit in the bathroom, each leaning up against a different wall.
“I’ve known Annette since I was fourteen. Sleepaway camp.” She takes a deep breath.
I count silently in my head—5, 4, 3, 2—tears.
She lightly taps her head against the wall, eyes becoming glassy. “I’ve known her for twenty-eight years. I was there when she came out. I went to her twenty-first birthday. I met her first girlfriend. She introduced me to my husband.”
I remain silent—that’s my job right now.
“Her parents and brother were here the first week of her death—you’ve never seen people so distraught.” She’s crying harder now, not bothering to hide them. “They finally went back to Colorado.” She grunts a laugh, shakes her head back and forth. “I was there when she broke up with her first major girlfriend, when she received a Guggenheim … ” Her voice trails off. “What am I going to do without her?”
“I don’t know.” My voice sounds small. I glance at the tile, look for hair or dirt on the floor and in the cracks. “She had her whole life ahead of her. She was gaining respect and acknowledgment in her career.” When I glance back at Sloan, she’s staring at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
She sniffles and uses the back of her hand to wipe her face.
I reach over and pull toilet paper off the spool, hand it to her.
I could sit here forever. “Seems like everyone’s upset today,” I add, trying to make her feel better. “I guess people are extra sensitive, it being the last day. Kind of like saying good-bye again.”
“Karen’s upset for different reasons.”
“Oh?”
There’s a long pause. I shift uncomfortably on the floor.
“Did you know Annette was planning on leaving her?” she asks, then blows her nose.
This is a trick question. If I say “yes,” the boat sinks; if I say “no,” I drown. Answering “yes” means Annette and I stayed in touch. But this is very personal information, and my guess is she wouldn’t have shared it. And would I have been the type of friend back then to be privy to such drama? If I say “no,” I lose status. Think. Think. “Sort of.”
She’s stopped crying and eyes me suspiciously.
I’ve answered wrong.
“When did she tell you?”
“We spoke a month ago. I called about some freelance work, we got to talking. She sounded a little, I don’t know, sad. Not her usual self.”
Sloan nods. I continue.
“Anyway, she mentioned she and Karen were not connecting, that she was antsy. I recalled a conversation we had at the office a while back. There was this editor, and Annette said if she wasn’t with Karen, she’d ask this woman out. I mean, she didn’t say she was dissolving the relationship, but I knew things weren’t great back then, so when she told me about this a few weeks ago, it wasn’t exactly a shock.”
Sloan is motionless.
I play with the Tylenol bottle. Shake it back and forth. It sounds like jumping beans. I pretend to cucaracha, anything to get Sloan to smile.
There’s a knock and we jump. Sloan’s hand reaches for the door as Wes pushes in.
“Sorry, I wasn’t sure anyone was in here.” She looks from Sloan to me, then back to Sloan. “I could hold it in or pee off the roof if you guys need more time.” She grimaces. “Okay, stand-up is not my strong suit. Everyone all right?”
We nod like puppets and file out.
Before Wes has a chance to close the door, Sloan whispers something to her.
I could go. I could pretend I need something from my coat pocket and just leave. I don’t owe anyone a thing.
I take a few steps backward and wait for Sloan to say something—anything would be fine, and when she doesn’t, I ask if she wants to get a drink.
She mumbles the word Scotch and all feels momentarily saved.
It’s late. Hours have passed. We’ve had much to drink, and I’m feeling really good. I wonder if Patti wants a roommate.
A few people are lounging in the living room, fewer mill about by the food, drinking coffee and eating desserts. Everyone seems to have broken off into small clusters and are having intimate conversations. The more wine that gets opened, the more this feels like a party. Like I’ve known these women forever. Next week it will be my turn to host our weekly get-together. I look for Sloan and find her in the kitchen by the sink, standing next to Joanna and Wes. They’re whispering. Conspirators scraping plates, sponge-cleaning glasses. They stop talking when I walk in. My heart does a little rhythmic dance of panic. I wonder if I’ve gone overboard with the slide show. Maybe Karen knows more about Annette’s working relationships than I thought. Maybe it was the bathroom thing that did me in.
