The Joy of Funerals, page 23
“I was coming to help,” I say, holding up a few glasses and empty bottles.
“We’ve put a dent in the washing process, I think,” Wes says, her hands sudsy. “The dishwasher should be finished in a half hour. I think we’ve done all we can.”
She and I do a little soft-shoe as we swap spots. I put the glasses into the sink, the bottles into a brown paper bag on the floor.
The kitchen has always been a favorite spot of mine. The fluorescent lights, the calming effect of Formica, the clean, slick floor, the shiny marble top. But Patti’s is California-style. There’s no Formica, only wood. The fluorescent lights have been replaced with old metal cone-shaped lamps that hang from the ceiling. It’s too open to feel intimate.
Sloan slides me a stack of plastic containers and I scoop out lo mein and beef fried rice from the white cardboard and transfer it into the Tupperware. The moo shu, garlic shrimp, and orange chicken, I keep in the aluminum tins they came in.
I finish my duties first and watch her slice the last of the fruit. Her hands work carefully, precisely. Even as she scoops melon, there is thoughtful care. This is how she would comfort others.
In the past twenty-four hours I’ve seen her cry, laughed with her friends, been privy to intimate details about her life. I’ve witnessed so much in such a short time. I can’t let go now.
“I think Patti’s closing shop,” Sloan finally says. “Looks like the girls are getting ready to leave.”
I follow Sloan’s gaze and see several women standing by the elevator, coats on, hugging Patti and Karen good-bye.
“Looks like it. I guess I’ll get mine, too.”
Sloan walks me to the elevator and pushes open the gate. I almost trip getting in as she leans close to my ear. For a moment I think she’s going to give me a hug or whisper something warm and endearing. Her breath is hot against my skin, and she takes a hand and wraps it around my shoulder. I remember the necklace in my pocket and am about to present it to her when she says, “I won’t tell Patti or Karen, but I don’t know who the fuck you think you’re kidding.”
I stop. My body shuts down, my mind races as a prickling feeling starts in my fingers. “What did I do?” The words scarcely come out. “Whatever it is, I’m sorry.”
“I bet you are.”
She releases her grip and pushes me into the elevator.
The gate bangs closed so loudly I think something in my head has burst.
The next morning I feel hung over. I showered when I got home but the smoke and smell of wine still clings to me. Faint memories of last night, a paper trail of humiliating moments. I’ve put my black turtleneck back in the plastic. Sealed in the smells, preserved them until it will be needed again. The black pants can be washed. I have the sweater—that’s enough for now.
I sit on the floor of my kitchen and pour myself a Scotch and water, and unwrap the pack of Camel Lights. All morning long I feel as though I’ve been holding myself in, trying to understand why I feel so lousy.
Last night keeps flashing before me. I attempt to block it out. I blast music to interrupt the thoughts, to halt the feelings. I search the paper, looking for services, an addict waiting for her fix. I scan the paper so quickly the words blur and I can’t read them. I force my eyes to focus but it’s useless.
November spins out of control. The days are dark, the mornings not so bright. The air is cold and the trees are brown and dying. I hate my life. I haven’t heard back from Sloan. I’ve left a message and e-mailed her twice, trying to explain the situation, but have gotten no response. Dean feels like a distant memory, too. A deep, sweet dream that happened long ago. Hard to tell the truth from the fantasy. Harder still to remain alone.
I go to funeral after funeral, sometimes two in one day. It doesn’t matter who for. I just know I need to be around people. On Friday, I go to a thirty-two-year-old’s wake who died of AIDS, and another for a social worker who was the victim of a hit-and-run. On Monday, I attend mass for Patrick McGuire, a baseball player for the Yankees. Some of his memorabilia is on eBay, and I ordered an old scorecard from David Raspen. He overnighted it so I could bring it with me to the funeral. It arrived yellowed and aged. There were notes about the game and about McGuire’s performance in smeared pencil, making it hard to read. I walk right up to his daughter and give her the card while saying my father was a fan and though he is too ill to attend, asked if I would be his mouthpiece. She cries when I present it to her, cries harder when she shows her husband. The rest of the day, people congratulate me as if I’ve done something extraordinary, as if I’ve brought him back to life.
Tuesday afternoon finds me crashing Ming Lee’s burial ceremony, a true Chinese cultural event. I learn that crying is not permitted. If tears are shed, the soul is left behind and cannot enter another life. During the proceeding monks chant and ask the soul to be forgiven for any sins it may have committed. Paper money is burned so the soul has a plentiful, wealthy afterlife. I’m one of eight Americans, and though I feel extremely out of place, I’m comforted by the strict rules of religion and tradition. The obit said Ming worked at the Asia Society, “Which I frequented often,” I tell his wife, June. “He was a vat of information. I loved it when he’d explain the new artifacts the museum received.” I bow my head as I praise her dead husband.
Ming’s body is never seen by the mourners. Instead, it’s wrapped in a yellow cloth, like a huge worm in a cocoon, and flowers are draped over the body. Then the deceased is placed in a casket and wheeled into a burning oven. The ashes are given to the widow three days later.
Ming’s cousin, Sue, explains all of this at her mother’s home. She’s not religious and couldn’t care less if the body and soul are one, or if the soul is free. Her eyebrow is pierced and her hair is buzz cut. She looks like a Buddha.
After I leave the Lee group, I stop by Mr. Barber, who is having a reception for his wife, Judy. It’s here where I make a terrible mistake. I confuse Judy’s profile with a woman whose funeral I attended several days ago and give the wrong information.
“She was a truly vibrant gal,” I say, mid-bite, fork full of creamy pasta. When Mrs. Miller asks how I know her, I say, “I worked with her at the restaurant.”
“Restaurant? What are you talking about?” she asks.
My mind races as I try to retrieve facts about this woman. She was a chef? No, that was last week. A teacher, doctor, banker … This woman did something with food or flowers, table settings … parties. Yes. She planned parties. Children’s parties. I’m tempted to excuse myself, find a bathroom, and review the obit I have carefully cut out and put in my pocket for emergencies like this one. I reach for it now and come up empty. Did I put it in my bag? Did I even bring it with me? I couldn’t handle another scene like the one with Sloan. I take a deep breath. I’ve got to calm down. Got to pull myself together. “I mean, I worked at the restaurant where she organized many of her parties. I was one of the chefs. We often planned the menus together.”
“Oh.” The woman’s face eases, forehead lines are erased, brows calm down and return to a more relaxed position. “I see. You’re right, she was a most creative woman.”
“She certainly was.”
I’m skimming the paper on Saturday when I come across an obit for Natalie Brown Finer, a young woman in her late thirties who fell from her terrace high-rise on the Upper West Side last Thursday. A graduate of Vassar in art, she was married to her husband, Brandon Finer III, who she met at school. He is a VP at Merrill Lynch. She is survived by her twin sister Lena, her parents Milla and Keith Brown, and her husband.
Three hours later, I sign the guest book as Maya Hanker. On the table are several pictures of Natalie in conservative silver frames: one with her sister, one on her wedding day, and one graduating from Vassar. There is something terribly sad about Natalie. Even though she is smiling in each picture, something is missing from her eyes. Her face retains a suppressed look, as if she’s holding back a scream.
The chapel is half full by the time I get there. I check my coat and try to obtain important clues from the snippets of dialogue spoken by the other women.
A line has already formed on the right and people are kneeling by her coffin, one by one. I watch them, a slow assembly line of drones as they wait patiently.
In an effort to meet more people and buy time, I double back and head for the bathroom, knowing I can gain more information from the bits of conversation. Afterward I detour and retrieve something from my coat pocket, a lipstick or hanky. Then I ask an attendant for some water.
Eventually, I get in line and wait behind lots of women in conservative suits, who clutch their husbands’ arms with one hand, their Gucci bags in the other, and wait to see Natalie. It takes only eight seconds for the woman in front of me to look me up and down. I watch her eyes move from my feet to my chest, then to my face. Her lips are pressed together and she contorts them into a smile.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hello,” she retorts, her face unaffected.
“I’m Maya Hanker.” I extend my hand. She shakes mine strongly, like a man.
“I’m Olivia—this is my husband, Greg.”
“Hi.”
We wait for a minute.
“So, does your husband work with Brandon?” she asks.
“No. I went to Vassar with Natalie.”
“Oh,” her voice climbs several octaves. “Me, too. Were you our year?”
“No, I’m two years younger.”
Olivia frowns. “What dorm were you?” Her lips have gone back to a pressed position.
“The one on the hill.” I look at my watch. Then glance around. “What a wonderful turnout. Natalie would be really pleased.”
We move closer to the coffin.
“So you all went to Vassar,” the husband reiterates.
I nod. “Natalie and I only had one class together but we talked shop whenever she came into the studio.” I wait for them to say something and when they don’t, I continue. “She was really talented. We were in different mediums—I make beads.” My hand moves to my throat. I feel stone, cool and flat. “In fact, I made this.”
Olivia seems impressed. Greg is not. He’s bored and has yawned twice since we’ve started conversing.
“Have you seen Brandon yet?” I ask, feeling antsy. The Valium I popped this morning hasn’t taken effect yet. I found a dated bottle in my medicine cabinet and even though the prescription was a few years old, thought they still might be good. I think about taking another now.
“He was on the phone by the water closet,” Greg says, contributing to the conversation. I picture the three of us on a game show, each rushing to raise our hands and reach for the buzzer. And he’s finally answered a question.
Brandon is sitting in a chair directly outside of the men’s room, just as Greg promised. I recognize him from the photo.
He’s cradling the phone in his ear, hand on the small gadget while patting his chest. He stands up, walks over to the console, and opens the drawer. I watch his frenetic state as he searches for what I guess is pen and paper while telling the voice on the other end to hold for just a moment. He can’t possibly focus, he’s just lost his wife. He finally reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a pen, but no paper. I come up behind him and hand him a sheet from my purse.
I carry an array of obscure and helpful objects for such crises. Pen, paper, safety pins, package of tissues, aspirin and Advil, matches, hairpins, mints, and gum. Someone is always in need. Girl Scout to the widowed, Florence Nightingale to the grieving.
Brandon smiles, mouths thank you. He smells of lemon-lime aftershave. I stand there a second, watch him lean over the table, struggling to hold the phone, the pen, and paper all at the same time. I bend toward him and steady the top of the white sheet without having to be asked, as if it’s the most important task I’ve ever had. If I’m good at my job, I’m in. Who’s that? I picture one of the guests asking Brandon later on, while collecting his jacket from the coat rack or as they stand as a group outside, stealing a smoke. “Oh, she’s the one that held the paper down for me as I took the plot information. I didn’t have to ask her for help—she just did it, instinctively and all.”
He ends his call. “Thanks for the assistance.”
He’s handsome with boyish charm and chiseled features. The quintessential WASP in a soft Kennedy way that must have made him the catch of the school. And yet, as I stare into his eyes, there is something missing. His pupils seem too dark and large, the white part too white.
‘’I’m so sorry. What a terrible thing to have happened.”
“Thank you,” he says, bestowing a hand. His grip is manly and strong, his skin firm and soft. It feels like we’re closing a deal.
“I’m Maya. Your wife and I took art classes together at Vassar. Well, one class.”
We hold the stare as my mind races. He was there, too, right?
His face suddenly brightens. His white eyes grow whiter.
“Could I ask you for a favor?”
Yes. Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you.
“I was wondering if you’d say a few words on her behalf. I know it’s last-minute, but her dear friends from school who are here—you might know some of them—can’t seem to pull it together to say anything. I know Nat would appreciate it. There’s no one else to represent that part of her life, and it was a rather important time for her.” He looks away. “For us. That’s how we met.”
I nod. “I know. I remember her telling me about you. I was trying to coerce her into fixing me up with one of your friends.”
He looks confused for a second. He’s trying to remember if my name ever came up, if his late wife ever mentioned this. He smiles. “Matchmaking was never her forte. Besides, back then, you wouldn’t have wanted to date any of my friends. You’d be spending your weekends at polo matches and fraternity parties, watching someone puke off a balcony.”
If only, I think. I would have gladly done that. Been that.
“So, will you?’’ His voice is eager yet firm.
We’ve stopped shaking hands by this point. He’s placed his on his hip, which meets his other. He looks like he’s bracing himself for a blustery wind.
I’ve always wanted to deliver a eulogy, see if I could pull it off, give the performance of a lifetime. But something feels wrong. I don’t know how Natalie died. There are too many whispers, too much is unsaid. Everyone is working overly hard to seem happy, in a sad way. There is excessive praising and generalizing. No one is speaking about her or her death. Instead, friends and relatives, business associates and club members, talk of her. Of her work. Of her charity functions. Natalie the person is lost.
There are hints, too. Short, breathy snippets of dialogue in the coatroom and bathroom where someone said she was pregnant. Another, her sister, mentioned she was unhappy and that she had broken plans with her earlier that week. Someone else mentioned she wasn’t feeling well. I chatted with others, wives of Brandon’s colleagues, and they said she was acting aloof and secretive. Distant.
Another woman comes up behind us, gives Brandon a peck on the cheek, then grabs him by both shoulders and brings him into her. “This. Is. Just. Awful. Please, tell me this isn’t happening.”
I want to clap and hand her an Oscar, ask her who did her makeup and which designer lent her the dress.
I clear my throat. She smiles and offers her hand. “We met in the hallway for a second. I’m Kelly. It’s Sasha, right?”
“No, Maya,” I correct her.
“Sorry, there are so many people here.” She’s holding Brandon’s hand now.
“That’s okay.” Did I introduce myself as Sasha? I can’t remember.
“I’m hoping Maya will say a few words about Nat from our Vassar days,” Brandon adds, this time more emphatically.
“Oh, that would be wonderful.”
“It would,” he says, looking at me. “It really would.”
He’s used to getting his way, and I’m not sure turning him down now would be ideal. I’m also not sure I can pull this off. I’m sweating and a little nauseous. There’s too much saliva in my mouth. I need water. “I’m terribly flattered, but I haven’t prepared…”
“That’s fine. Nat wouldn’t mind. She’d be thrilled to know someone remembered her from back then. Especially someone she’s been out of touch with for so long.”
Kelly nods, puppet-like, puts a hand on mine. “It would be terribly gracious, and we’d all appreciate it so.”
I swallow a mouth full of drool. “Okay.”
I steal Natalie’s photo off the table, the one of her and Brandon on their wedding day. I slip into the bathroom stall and stare at her wedding picture, looking for clues to who she was. I read the newspaper blurb again, hoping something will come to me. I close my eyes and try to picture their high-rise on the Upper West Side. I see a huge marble foyer, chandelier, leather couches, modern furniture, glass table, pewter and silver items accentuating the stark, minimalistic look.
I see her studio space, a room just for her art, a man’s oxford shirt smattered with paint and oil, worn-in jeans, Keds sneakers. I see her with a paint brush in her mouth as she steps away to admire her work, towel in her hand, hair pulled back in a scrunched-up ponytail.
I wonder if she went out for air. Perhaps the fumes from the paint made her dizzy. If she was pregnant it wouldn’t be good for the baby; she’d be prone to nausea. Her neighbor thought she might’ve been painting on the terrace. Maybe something caught her eye. Maybe she leaned over the railing to get a better look.
