The Joy of Funerals, page 6
Helen has always had a talent for fashion. Senior year she won best dressed and most likely to succeed. She learned quickly that people bonded over clothing and makeup. That the cool, popular kids were always the best dressed and that complimenting someone on their watch or handbag was a great icebreaker. She worked as an accessories editor at Glamour, and then Cosmo, before working as a costumer on Saturday Night Live. Eventually she shopped her way through the food chain, becoming a locations director for TV shows. Before her shopping problem developed five years ago, she was the favored child. Now her father rarely speaks to her, and her mother no longer asks how she’s doing.
Her parents divorced when she was fourteen. Aside from a few holidays, they rarely saw each other. After Helen was arrested for shoplifting and given a court date, her parents formed a bizarre friendship. In reality, Helen’s purchasing compulsion forced her parents to get along for the first time in their lives. If nothing else, she is responsible for that. Now, along with the mandatory sessions with Marty and 12-step meetings, her parents get together once a month with her and her brother as a sort of family therapy. They go over her bills, ask her for additional receipts, and look at her bank statements, checks, and pay stubs. All of this is kept in a large red accordion folder.
Her arms are laden with packages when she walks in and notices the machine blinking. The first call is from her mother. Her voice is slurred. Helen looks at the clock: 5:49 p.m. She must be on her third martini by now. She keeps meaning to introduce her mother to her boss. She envisions them having hazy, liquid lunches. The next message belongs to a voice she doesn’t recognize. “This is Dr. Pinter. I share space with Dr. Radkin and was given your number through his service. I’m afraid Dr. Radkin will be unable to keep your 6:30 p.m. appointment tomorrow. I’d like to discuss the reason for the sudden cancellation. Please call back when you can. I can be reached at 212-445-9676. Thank you.”
She calls Marty’s machine first and gets his normal outgoing greeting: Please leave a message and telephone number and your call will be returned within the hour. His deep, soft-spoken voice—which reminds her of melted dark chocolate—sends instant comfort through her body. She tries Dr. Pinter.
“Hello?” The voice is crisp, almost irritated. Tired.
“Hi. This is Helen Shapiro returning your call.”
“Could you hold for a second?” Helen hears the ruffling of papers. “Yes, Helen. Thank you for phoning back.” He breathes deeply into the phone. “I don’t quite know how to say this, but there’s been an accident, and Dr. Radkin will be unable to continue treatment.”
“What? ls Marty okay?”
“There was a freak incident and he sadly passed away last night.”
Helen drops the bags and hears something crack. The pitcher she bought at Tiffany’s. A thank-you for her brother for the use of his home. “How? What happened?”
“He was leaving an appointment and pressed the elevator button. The doors opened, only the elevator wasn’t there and he unknowingly stepped forward.”
Helen visualizes Marty’s lean body free-falling down the dark shaft. She sees him dressed in one of his crew-necked sweaters that makes him look like an old man, his tan trench coat still folded neatly over his arm.
“Are you all right ?” Dr. Pinter continues. “I realize this is a shock, and if you’d like to talk with someone … I know you don’t know me, but I’d be more than happy to see you. Or perhaps I can recommend someone else. A woman, maybe, if that would make you more comfortable.”
Helen has moved on to another scene. A hotel room. The hotel room where she and Marty had sex. They would finish their session late Thursday night. Helen would walk out first, take a cab to the Four Seasons, check in, and wait for him in their room. Fifteen minutes later, a knock would come. “Who is it?” went the game. “Room service,” he’d answer back. “But I didn’t order anything.” She’d open the door, swaddled in a plush terry cloth robe. This last time, Helen inquired about purchasing it. She billed it to Marty. One more charge her father would never know about.
Their bodies fit so well together, tight and comfortable, like the robe, like the snakes in her dreams, that she had trouble relinquishing him to the other woman. Trouble understanding that there was someone else he went home to. Someone who met him at the door, welcomed him in with a gin and tonic in one hand and a hot meal, lamb chops with mint green jelly, in the other.
She loved Marty most in this room. Here there was no pen skipping across lined paper, no sympathetic nods, no white noise machine used to drown out patients’ voices, or her own as she spewed stories about her parents, about the shopping, about the bubble raft. His breathing seemed faster in the hotel, too. His actions quicker, his body language more aggressive.
Marty would leave first. He’d kiss her on the lips, then move to her forehead, and say, “Love is priceless.” After he was gone, she’d shower and lounge around in the robe or she’d invite Tess over and the two would order room service and watch QVC. They’d wait till the last second, until the product had been marked down to the lowest price possible, and call to purchase the items (rhinestone bracelets, silver bangles, rolling rings in faux white gold), all charged to Marty. Sometimes they ordered a bauble for his wife and had it delivered to his home. The note would read: For my one and only. Marty never seemed to mind and rarely handed her the bill.
“What did Faye say when you gave her my last gift?” Helen inquired one time.
“She thought it was sweet, I guess, and mentioned I had good taste.” Marty shrugged. “Who knows what she thinks. She’s a simple woman who’s hard to please. But that’s Faye, a walking contradiction.” Then he scribbled something on his legal pad.
Sometimes she bought him little things, things she felt his wife wouldn’t notice: a new pen, a money clip, a key ring. During her sessions, they would talk about the gifts, why she purchased them, why she felt he was worthy of them, how it made her feel to give them to him … “Less hollow? More secure?” he would suggest. Helen would look away and sometimes cry. On these rare occasions, Marty would reach for the box of Kleenex resting on the small, round table and lean forward, offering it to her as if it were an engagement ring. She always refused. Instead, she’d reach into her handbag and retrieve a silk handkerchief. “I’m not going to become a ‘tissue patient,’” she’d say. These were the people who came out of the office, eyes glassy, noses red. The women’s makeup would be smeared, the men’s faces would be blotchy. This look screamed, My life is riddled with issues. Not Helen. Whenever she left the crowded waiting room Marty shared with three other shrinks, the patients would look up at her, the men from their New York Times or Wall Street Journal, the women sifting through Vogue or the New Yorker, and think, Who is that well-put-together woman? She’s too chic, too pretty, to be here for herself. She must come for someone else.
Dr. Pinter is still talking to her. “At least let me give you my pager number. Please, call anytime.”
She declines his offer but asks where the funeral is, and if the family is sitting shiva.
“Yes, of course, just a moment. I’ll get the address.”
She already knows Marty’s address, but lets this Dr. Pinter share it with her so he can feel as though he’s done something. So he can think he’s a good shrink.
Before he hangs up, he tells her mourning is helpful, that wanting to say good-bye is a very healthy response.
Helen skips the funeral and decides to sit shiva with Marty’s wife instead. She’s wanted to see the apartment for a year and walks in with a two-pound box of Godiva. It looks so pretty in the untouched gold bag that Helen doesn’t want to part with it. Almost can’t relinquish her hold. She feels that way about makeup too. It all looks so clean and perfect that it pains her to dab the brush into the creamy blush or run the tiny black applicator over the eye shadows. She even has trouble removing the little piece of plastic that sits gracefully on top of the makeup, protecting the colors and the mirror.
Faye greets her at the door and almost takes Helen’s breath away. Marty’s wife is beautiful. She’s a sophisticated, handsome woman with defined features. Her blond hair is real, unlike Helen’s, and her skin is flawless. She’s dressed smartly in what Helen bets is this year’s Valentino suit and black Jimmy Choo shoes. Her face is sallow and she moves slowly, as if her clothing is too heavy.
They shake hands.
Helen mumbles something about how insightful Marty was, that she feels lucky to have been his patient, even if it was for such a short time.
The apartment is a little dark and cluttered with furniture. Folding chairs have been placed in every available spot in the living room and study. The walls are lined with shelves of books. And at first glance, Helen thought it was wallpaper. At closer range, she realizes they are authentic. The books are real. As real as Marty’s death. The couch and loveseat are done in cracked brown leather, the exact opposite of the smooth surface of Marty’s black leather office chairs. Helen wishes she were sitting in one of them now. She would give anything to stare at Marty’s scar, look into his eyes, and smell his faint rustic cologne.
Helen can’t tell who’s a patient and who’s family and friends. As far as she can count, over forty-four people have come to pay their respects. She takes a slow, thoughtful lap around the apartment and ends up sitting on the couch next to a woman close to her own age. The woman seems a little lost, as if she wants to blend in but is having trouble doing so. Helen is in midsentence when her eyes settle on several vases filled with white roses. They stand erect on the floor in a ceremonious pose. She lifts her head up and notices another vase. Or maybe it’s a bowl? Why would anyone put a bowl on the mantel? That’s when it hits her. Helen wills herself to stand, to take a step closer. Like the shelves of books, the house feels deceiving. Her body feels light and airy.
“Isn’t it the most bizarre story you’ve ever heard?” asks a woman standing behind her. “Seventy percent of his bones were broken in the fall. When they pulled him out, they said his body was like a rag doll. Lifeless and flimsy.”
Helen stares at the talking person next to her.
“Can you imagine? His face was unrecognizable. That’s why they chose cremation.”
Helen’s dog, a cocker spaniel named Wilma, was cremated. Her father wanted to stuff the dog, but her mother threatened to leave him if he did. As a compromise, her mother bought a light blue urn and kept Wilma on their windowsill in the kitchen. Eventually she was brought to the family mausoleum when Helen’s grandmother died three years later. Both the dog and her grandmother sit side by side, kept company by relatives Helen never met.
“Are you a friend or part of the family?”
Helen wants to hit this woman with her handbag, whirl it at her head.
“Which is it, dear?”
Helen cannot speak. She cannot breathe. Her chest is tight, her throat swollen, mouth dry. She bites down on her tongue, trying to create some saliva. Her head feels disconnected to her body. “Do you think I could have a moment alone with him?” She looks from the pasty woman to Marty.
“Of course,” she says. “Certainly.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Helen sees the lost-looking woman from the couch approach. The rude woman takes her arm and glides her away. “She’d like a minute or two alone. I think it’s one of Marty’s patients. You know, Faye invited them all … ” The woman’s voice fades. The room darkens. All Helen can see is her reflection in the urn, small and faint. She puts her hand on it. Feels the solidness, the cold sensation of brass. She whispers a little prayer, something about starting over, about giving away everything she has ever owned. All she wants to do right now is strip herself clean. Stand in front of Marty in their hotel room naked. No plush robe, no bangle bracelets or shopping bags. A second hand comes to meet the first as she lifts Marty down. She wants to see what’s inside. Needs to know what’s left of the man she saw for two years and fucked once a week. It’s filled with beige-and-brown sand, and small, granular pieces of bone. Suddenly, Helen needs to have it, have him, more than anything she has ever needed before. More than the pricey earrings, more than the untouched creamy blush or the QVC rolling ring.
A scream comes from the kitchen, a curdling cry of realization. It’s the sound of acceptance. The understanding that Marty is never coming home. Helen turns to find that most of the guests have formed a ring around someone. She spots Faye on the floor. She hears “oohs,” and “shushes.” Someone says, “Get her to her feet.” Another suggests giving her water. A third insists space and air is what is needed.
Helen finds herself standing by the front door, fighting with the heavy knob. Marty is in her arms, her handbag is swung over her right shoulder. Her hands are wet with sweat but are as steady as a gunman’s. She pulls the door open, steps forward, and closes it quietly behind her. She rings for the elevator, then, not wanting to wait, takes the stairs. She rushes down the steps like Jack running from the Giant as pieces of Marty dance inside his container. She checks behind her, half expecting to find Faye towering over her, but no one is there.
Once outside, she walks briskly, innocently, then breaks into a full run. Marty knocks softly against the brass walls, as if he is trying to say something. “Love is priceless. Love is priceless,” she hears.
She runs all the way home anyway.
Addressing the Dead
The mortician digs into his breast pocket, removes a card from the small billfold, and thrusts it at me. “Georgia’s really the best,” he says. Walter looks like Gomez from the Addams Family: thick mustache, zoot suit, big, bulgy eyes. The card feels thick in my hand. I stare at it. A makeup brush and compact are printed in the middle, Georgia Besser: Funereal Cosmetologist is written underneath.
He sits down at his desk, motioning me with his fingers to fill the empty seat across from him. “It’s an open casket, right?” I watch him make notes on a piece of paper. “That’s rather unusual for Jews, isn’t it?”
This morning, two men came to take the oxygen tank, Demerol drip, and hospital bed from my mother’s home, leaving me and the super standing in awkward silence until all that was left was her furniture. My parents divorced when I was nine; my father died a few years ago from a heart attack. For the past seventeen hours, I’ve been an orphan.
“My mother left instructions insisting on a viewing. She wasn’t very religious.”
He nods, makes more notes. “Anyway, Georgia’s wonderful,” he continues, as if selling me a used car. He flips through a long brown agenda book on his desk, takes his bony index finger and runs up and down the lined pages. “If you’d like to see her work, there are services here tonight at 7:00, open casket.” He looks up expectantly.
“Wouldn’t that be improper?” I glance around the room for a pitcher of water. “I wouldn’t want to … ”
“Nonsense.” He waves a large paw at me. “It’s done all the time. Besides, it’s not like you can wait. Your mother’s service is scheduled for Wednesday, right?”
I nod, dazed.
My friend, Maggie, accompanies me to Mrs. Goldstein’s service. We sit in the back row, quietly, her hand around my arm as if trying to hold me up. When it’s time to view the body, the mourners form a line in the chapel, anxious to pay their last respects.
“What do you think?” I say, a foot away from the casket.
Mrs. Goldstein’s hair is a perfect layer of curly red locks which appropriately cup her face. Her cheeks are rosy and healthy. Her eyelashes are long and elegant, lids dusted lightly with gray and gold shadow, which blends together in a subtle, soft way. Maggie and I lean in closer, trying to get a better look. She smells like lilacs, and her lips are full and glossy. In fact, she looks as if she’s asleep, waiting for a prince’s kiss to wake her from a trance.
“She’s beautiful,” Maggie whispers.
All I can do is nod.
“She has to do my mother,” I announce, once Maggie and I are outside. I say this as if applying for a job I desperately want.
“She really did amazing work,” Maggie agrees.
It’s cold, but the sky is light for April. We hover together, shivering, looking like twins in our conservative black skirts and jackets.
A woman is leaning up against a silver Mercedes convertible, smoking a cigarette. She looks like Elizabeth Taylor did in her forties, plump but still glamorous. “You should have seen Mrs. Goldstein when they brought her in,” she calls to us, a raspy, southern twang to her voice. “She was all puffed-up and pale,” she adds, making circles around her face with the hand holding a cigarette loosely between her fingers. “Poor dear, her lips were peeling and dry, her skin all cakey, and her hair was, like, brittle. I deep-conditioned it for over an hour.”
She pushes her body away from the car and walks toward us.
“I used an entire bottle of foundation,” she says.
She’s wearing a long, dark, V-necked dress and a brown velvet shawl with silver-and gold-colored roses running through it. Her bright auburn hair is in a bun held together by gold-colored chopsticks. A few loose tresses frame her face. Sparkly diamond earrings dangle from her lobes, accentuating her neck. Her skin is smooth, like a porcelain doll with a tan, and her lips are painted a sexy blood-red. Her eyes are soft blue and seem to take you in while sizing you up all at once.
“Still, it all pays off in the end. She looked so pretty and peaceful, didn’t you think?”
I look at her, watch cigarette smoke rise from her long fingers, coral and turquoise baubles on each hand. She smells like gardenia, summery and sweet.
“No one wants to look ugly, even the dead. You never know who they’re going to meet in the afterlife, and if they look like shit, they’ll be pissed.” She laughs, then winks. “You have wonderful cheekbones,” she adds, her thumb and index finger pressed gently against my chin. She twists my head from side to side. “Truly gorgeous, but sweetheart, if you don’t mind me saying, your makeup is all wrong.” She flicks her cigarette; red flakes fall like specks of rain.
