The Joy of Funerals, page 24
It was the neighbor who found the body on the sidewalk. Was there when the ambulance came. “The men didn’t even try to resuscitate her,” she told me during my first bathroom trip. “I watched them cover her body with a sheet. Blood leaked right through.”
My hands are shaking and I can’t catch my breath. My head is pounding so hard I sit down on the bathroom floor and rest my temple against the cool ceramic bowl. I take the extra Valium, fish it out from my pocket, stick it in my mouth and swallow. Then I swallow again. Once more for luck. “I can’t do this anymore,” I say, as if hearing the sound of my own voice will make my statement final. More definitive.
Something is wrong.
Something is wrong with me. With how this woman died. With everything.
I suddenly have a deep desire to stick my finger down my throat and heave everything up from inside. I get up off the floor and bend over, finger already at the back of my mouth. My throat feels dry, my breath hot. My finger is just touching my tonsils and I’m in mid-gag when I stop.
I have to stay.
I owe it to Natalie.
I owe it to this woman whose life seemed unnaturally short. For some unexplainable reason, I feel I’m the one person who understood her the best.
The door opens. I smell perfume, hear voices, the sound of heels against tile.
“I’m sure he’ll move. How could he still live there and pass by the spot every day?”
“It’s a beautiful apartment.”
“Do they own?”
“Of course.”
“Really. Lance and I have been looking in that area … ”
“Three bedrooms,” the voice sings.
I come out of the stall and realize I’ve left the photo on the floor. I panic. I can’t go back and get it now. Maybe no one will notice, maybe I’ll have a heart attack right here and no one will care.
As I wash my hands I glance up at the women, catch their reflection in the mirror. They are well dressed and perfect, like my mother’s friends at my grandfather’s funeral. I look like a ghost. Pale and gaunt. My makeup is smeared and my hair is frizzy and out of place. But it will be me holding court. Once again, I’ll be speaking about someone I don’t know. Nothing has changed since I was eleven. I close my eyes, resurrect my grandfather’s funeral. The silver picture frame—much like Natalie’s. The coffin. My mother and father acting as a unit. My mother’s friends. Their perfectly coiffed hair, their perfect makeup. I think about Mrs. Resnick and her beautiful skin, about Beth and how lonely she looked. I switch to Annette and the funeral … someone’s hand is on my shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Concern is spread across her flawless skin, her beautiful green eyes look at me.
“You’re Nat’s art friend,” says another.
I nod. “I guess public speaking makes me more nervous than I care to admit.”
I splash cold water on my face. Someone hands me a towel, another is pushing a small seat in my direction.
“I’m fine,” I insist. “Just needed to get my bearings.”
Natalie’s friends make room for me next to their husbands. The priest says several prayers, mutters a few things in Latin, douses the coffin with holy water. It all seems like a running gag until the priest utters my name.
“Maya Hanker, Natalie’s dear friend from Vassar, would like to say a few words.”
I actually look around the chapel to see who will rise and walk to the platform. Kelly nudges me and someone’s husband gets up so I can slide out of the pew.
A huge statue of Christ is center stage. Colored beams of light from the sun streaming through the stained-glass windows illuminate him from behind, making him appear as if he’s rising up from the floorboards of the church. I look out and see rows and rows of saddened and serious faces staring back at me. My chest feels heavy, as if my heart is working too hard. Breath feels stuck in my throat and I wonder how I can possibly talk if it blocks my airways. This is payment. No, punishment. For all the funerals I’ve attended over the years, this is my apology. My penance.
“Natalie and I met years ago at Vassar.” My voice sounds momentarily lost in the enormous room. I lean into the mic and speak up a bit. “We were both art majors and though we didn’t take a class together until my second year, we’d see each other in the studio or at the coffee shop where I worked part-time. We’d talk about art, joke about our teacher, Mr. Phelps, who was always late and ended class half an hour early.” My words are clear, my voice somewhat steady. I can hear a slight echo coming from the mammoth speakers above my head. I look out into the sea of bodies. It’s odd to see them so attentive. Some dab a hanky to their eyes, others sit close to their spouses; the men have their arms resting on the edge of the pew or their hands wrapped around their wives’ shoulders.
I’ve spent years fantasizing about a moment such as this. Now that it’s here, I’m not sure how to enjoy it.
“One time we sketched outside on the lawn.” Lawn is a safe bet. All schools have them. “She was a wonderful artist with an interesting and imaginative eye for detail. She was the type to see something and be able to extract a small bit of information or catch a glimpse of something unexpected. That day on the lawn, we talked about our families. About school ending and future plans, the things we wanted to do with our lives, the places we wanted to see our art shown, the goals we had.” I skim the seats, each filled with a foreign face, an unfamiliar body. I try to picture my family, see if I can remember who sat where at my aunt’s memorial a month ago. I mentally insert them into the picture, replacing them with the people who now occupy the seats.
I see my own funeral. See my mother next to my father; my cousins, Vicki, Robert, and David; and my uncle; a few people from my past—the shrinks in the corner, Dean off to the side. Karen and her lover and her cousin and Sloan, and I’m dizzy and scared, and I don’t know what to say. I’ve lost my train of thought. I don’t even know if I’m still talking and if I am, whether my words are making sense.
There’s a wetness, too.
Small drops of water on my hands on the podium. I look up for a second, thinking there’s a leak. The chapel ceiling is high and painted with gold. Perfect, I think, water will come crashing down, baptizing me and forgiving me all of my sins, washing them all away, myself included. My cheeks feel wet, too, and I realize the water is coming from me. I choke for a moment, but I can’t stop the tears. I feel them running down my face, see them drop onto my fingers, which grip the stand. I don’t know if I should wipe them away or if people can see them or what the hell is wrong with me. “She was a terrific person even though I didn’t know her as well as many of you. And I regret not being closer with her back then and losing touch with her afterward.” I can’t catch my breath. They’re going to have to carry me out. The pallbearers will have to come up and scrape me off the floor. “ … And I hope we can remember what a wonderful person and passionate artist she was. I was proud to know her in school and honored to call her my friend.”
There is such silence when I am done that I think I’m imagining it. That this is all a dream. Every eye is on me. Many people are crying now. I look to Brandon to see his expression. His mouth is open and his skin is paler than I remember. There are no tears but he’s lost in thought. I see his and Natalie’s parents sitting in the first few rows. My eyes jump to her sister, then to her three little girls who huddle close, talking in their own language made up of eye moments and special looks. They don’t need more than that.
A pain starts in my chest. I can’t look away.
The longer I stare, the more it hurts.
I don’t move until the priest is suddenly standing next to me. He clears his throat, rests a sacred hand on my wet one.
I walk trance-like down several steps.
Natalie’s mother and father stand to hug me. Her twin sister, one child on her lap, the other two seated next to her, thanks me profusely. Brandon smiles weakly, mouths the words thank you, then looks away.
I walk to the back of the chapel, aware that everyone is staring. Some people stick their hands out to touch mine while uttering, That was lovely, or You spoke so well. Others simply bend their heads forward, a solemn nod of praise.
I hit the last pew, think about sitting down in the empty space but remember my dream. It’s now where people would turn around and point, their voices pitched high enough for dogs to hear, loud enough to wake the dead. It would be the priest who yells God will never forgive you.
I wait for a moment. Stand contemplating what to do, still expecting to see hands shoot up and fingers point, mouths drop open while screams come pouring out. I almost prepare myself for this, but nothing happens. The priest introduces the next speaker, a friend from Nantucket. I watch Cynthia make her way to the pulpit; notes gripped in her hand.
I retrieve my coat from the young girl and interrupt her reading People magazine. I’m halfway through the main doors when I remember the sign-in book.
I only have to turn back one page to find it.
Maya Hanker is printed neatly on the sixth line. I pick up the yellow lacquered fountain pen, cross it out, and write in my real name instead.
Nina Perlman stares back at me.
I hardly ever write my name except for checks and the occasional letter. Seeing it in the book amongst the others is odd. My strokes are bold and my name looks a little thicker than the rest. If my mother were here she’d smile, proud to see it standing out from the others.
I feel as though I’ve unleashed a small piece of myself. Left it here for Brandon to take home. In return, I slip the pen into my pocket, a final memento, find my way out of the chapel, and walk down Madison Avenue. Sunlight bounces off my back like the Jesus in the chapel. I engulf the moment as I finger the pen.
Acknowledgments
Over the past two decades since this novel was first published, many hands have touched these pages and helped make this arduous but incredibly auspicious, tangible journey worth taking—especially with this commemorative edition. I would be remiss—not to mention remorseful, if I didn’t give an extra huge and appreciative thank you to:
The New York Times, who, in 1999, published my essay, “The Joy of Funerals,” in their Lives column. And to my then-wonderful editor and now long-time friend, Eric Copage, for his enthusiasm and for pushing the work forward.
Every magazine, newspaper, and literary editor I have ever worked with, who, in their own way, contributed to my becoming a better writer.
The Wall Street Journal, Los Angeles Times, The Daily News, The New York Resident, Marie Claire, Vanity Fair, Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Elle, and Jane for their much-appreciated and thoughtful reviews.
Molly Jong-Fast, Cynthia Kaplan, Libby Schmais, and Pamela Redmond Satran, much admired authors and journalists, for their kind words.
St. Martin’s Press, for the first and second editions.
Palagram Press, for this new one.
Jennifer Weis, who put her first set of fingerprints on this manuscript.
Pauleanna Reid and the fine folks at WritersBlok, who, when news of a lost manuscript came to light, stepped in and up to help move this project along in ways—I will always be grateful.
Edward Bajek, for your never ending kindness, for being a constant, steady voice of calm, and for knowing all the ins and outs.
Liz Schreiter, for your creativity, and for making something beautiful—not to mention tangible.
Frank E. Campbell’s Funeral Home, the most famous, significant, and truly special funeral home in New York—if not the United States, and their entire team, for opening your doors not once, but twice. For taking a chance on me, and this novel. And for hosting one of the most creative book parties the Upper East Side has ever seen.
Bill Villanova, a most wonderful partner in crime, for listening to all of my ideas and then enthusiastically agreeing to do each one. And for having an intrinsic understanding and respect for people—those grieving and those whose lives have past.
Lee Alessi, for your attention to detail, and for making sure things ran smoothly.
Brittany Bowles, my super smart agent at United Talent Artists, who has been a wonderful reader, advisor and responder.
My smart friends who know a thing or two about pr, and the smart pr folks who were also good friends, your willingness to help was beyond meaningful and kind: Sarah Hill, Laura Markofsky, Jenny Ruff, Emily Tindol, Carina Bonasera and Lara Eurdolian.
Aliza Licht, for always being “On Brand”—both literally and figurately, and for being a great sounding board—and friend.
Ivana and Ron Starr, for always making, giving and having time, for being the greatest supporters and advisors, not to mention friends.
My parents, Jan and Steve Strauss, who never forced me to get a 9–to–5 job, even though they didn’t understand what a coffee-culture nation was.
Every Barnes & Noble and Starbucks, who pre-cell phones, pre-internet, pre-WeWorks, let me use their spaces as my temporary office.
Those who encouraged me 20 years ago, and who still encourage me two decades later.
All of you wonderful readers, then and now, who continue to be interested in spending time with these fascinating women.
About the Author
Alix Strauss is a trend, culture and lifestyle journalist; an award-winning, four-time published author; speaker; and frequent contributor to The New York Times.
Her books include: The Joy of Funerals (St. Martin’s Press & Palagram Press), Based Upon Availability (Harper Collins), and Death Becomes Them: Unearthing the Suicides of the Brilliant, the Famous and the Notorious (Harper Collins). She is also the editor of Have I Got a Guy for You (Simon & Schuster), an anthology of mother coordinated dating horror stories. Her work has been optioned for several TV and film projects.
A media savvy social satirist, she has been a featured lifestyle, travel and trend writer on national morning and talk shows including ABC, CBS, CNN, and the Today Show. During the past 25-years she has written over 1500 articles. Her articles, which have appeared in Elle, Harper’s Bazaar, Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire, Conde Nast Traveler, the Financial Times, Time Magazine, and Departures, among others, and cover a range of topics from trends in beauty, travel, and food to celebrity interviews.
The Joy of Funerals is an Ingram Award winner and was named Best Debut Novel by The New York Resident. Alix was the inaugural “First Chapters” pick, Cosmopolitan Magazine’s new launchpad of fiction excerpts, giving readers exclusive sneak peeks of gripping new work. Her essays and short fiction have appeared in the Primavera Literary Journal, Hampton Shorts Literary Journal, The Idaho Review, Quality Women’s Fiction, The Blue Moon Café III, Sex, Drugs & Gefilte Fish: The Heeb Storytelling Collection and A Kudzu Christmas. Her short story, “Shrinking Away”, won the David Dornstein Creative Writing Award. She is the recipient of several awards and fellowships from programs such as the Wesleyan Writers Conference, the Skidmore College Writer’s Institute, the Sarah Lawrence Summer Program, and the Squaw Valley’s Screenwriters’ Summer Program.
Alix lectures extensively and has been a keynote speaker, moderator or panelist at over 200 conferences, symposiums, seminars, and summits including: The Southern Festival of Books, The Northwest Bookfest, The New England’s Writer’s Conference, Wesleyan Writer’s conference, The 92nd Street Y, New York University, Center for Communications, University of Connecticut, and Columbia University. She was chosen to speak at the National Jewish Book Festival and is on the National Speakers Bureau for Israeli Bonds.
Alix Lives in Manhattan. You can connect with her at alixstrauss.com or @alixstrauss.
Alix Strauss, The Joy of Funerals
