The Joy of Funerals, page 7
I look at Maggie, who arches her eyebrows.
“I could do wonders for you.” She drops the remaining cigarette to the ground, stomps it out with her foot, and extends her hand. “I’m Georgia.”
When I don’t move, she reaches for mine and shakes it slowly. My throat goes dry. Her hand feels warm.
“This is Beth.” Maggie steps in, nudging me with her elbow. “We work together in Manhattan. You did a lovely job on Mrs. Goldstein.”
Georgia’s blue eyes shift from Maggie back to me. She’s still holding my hand. ‘I’m so sorry, darlin’. Walter told me all about you. I lost my mama years ago from cancer, too.”
I smile. Everything will be fine. This woman will make my mother look beautiful.
At night I sit in the living room in my mother’s apartment, making list after list of things to do, people I need to call, arrangements I have to make. Little, purposeful check marks have been put next to deli platters, relatives’ names, and the obituary section of the Times, who has promised to print the fifty-word blurb I’ve submitted. I’ve packed up most of her belongings. Her clothing will go to the Salvation Army. Her furniture has been tagged and is waiting, like a child, to be picked up by a parent after school. Her letters, jewelry, checkbook, passport, and photo albums are in expandable suitcases in the trunk of my car. I’ve flushed her bottles of medicine down the toilet, poured mouthwash, hairspray, and shampoo in the sink, tossed the empty containers in large plastic bags and hauled them to the curb for the garbage men. They sit next to shopping bags filed with her underwear, nightgowns, stained sheets and pillowcases which no one would want, not even the homeless. The refrigerator, too, has been emptied, scrubbed down, ready for the next occupant.
I found a deck of cards in the kitchen drawer; someone must have given them to my mother as a gift. They’re open, but barely used, and have pictures of Impressionist paintings on them. Monet. Renoir. I fan out the stiff cards and consider playing solitaire. After I graduated from high school, my mother took me to Paris for a week. On our second night there, we couldn’t sleep and played gin rummy till 3:00 a.m. The next day we found out European Pepsi had twice as much caffeine in it as ours did. When I visited, I’d always ask if she wanted to recreate our night in Paris, cards in one hand, six-pack of soda in the other. Too sick to leave her bed, gin seemed like a good way to bond. She preferred crossword puzzles or TV, things she could do on her own.
My father was the true card player and had a poker game for over twenty years. Each Thursday night was devoted to a deck and the seven men he played with. Every two months they’d convene at our house. I adored having them over. I’d serve them soda and beer in tall glasses with hearts and spades printed on them. I’d run around handing out napkins and paper plates, happy to do the job my mother rejected. Uninterested in striking up conversation with our guests, she’d hibernate in her bedroom. The men would pat me on the head, tell my father what a wonderful helper he had. But once the game officially started, I was banned from the room. I loved hearing the laughter, the rhythmic plop of the chips being tossed into the middle of the table, which was covered in black felt so the glass top wouldn’t get scratched. Loved hearing the cards being shuffled, the muffled sound of my father’s friends—even the smell of cigars wafting under my bedroom door was comforting. On these evenings, I got to sleep in my parents’ bed until the game ended. I’d creep into their room, find my mother reading the paper, half watching TV, and insist l couldn’t sleep. “Too much noise, too many strange voices,” I’d whine. “Okay, five minutes,” she’d say. I’d climb into bed with her, be the first to insert myself into the cool sheets. I’d position my body at the very edge of my father’s side, as far away from my mother as possible, hold my breath, and play dead. The only noises came from the turning of the paper, her breathing, and the low hum of the TV. If I lay still enough, she’d think I was sleeping. The luxury of lying next to her was worth the anxiety that at any moment she’d say my five minutes were up.
I enter the chapel and wave shyly to Walter, who signals back.
“Straight ahead. To your right there’s a flight of stairs,” he says. “She’s just down there, working away.”
The stairwell is clean and well lit. I grab the railing and listen to my shoes scuff against the cement steps.
I find Georgia sitting in a black padded chair, hunched over a coffin, humming and talking to whomever she’s working on. In the background, Anne Murray is playing on a scratchy record. Georgia’s fresh gardenia smell swoops over me like a quiet hush. I want to melt into the floor, curl up in the corner, and watch her work all day. I knock on the frame.
She spins around. “Welcome, sweetheart. I was just wondering where you were.” She tilts her head down and peers up over the specs perched on her nose. “Come on in, put your butt in a seat. This here is Mr. Molesworth. Can I get you some coffee or a glass of iced tea?”
I step inside, take her in, marveling at the fact that I’m allowed down here. It’s warm. Musty, too. A large wooden desk with a folding top is against the wall. To the left is a rug, a velvet couch, and a Victorian coffee table. A metal lamp hangs down from the ceiling over the coffin. Two grand windows, one directly above the coffin and the other above the couch, add natural lighting. An antique record player, the kind from the forties, is next to a mini refrigerator. Stacks of weathered album covers lean up against it. Bottles of liquor sit on top.
“Beth, would you be a dear and hand me the foundation called Light Coffee? It’s over there in my box.”
I walk to a long table toward the back of the room. Her makeup box looks like a witch doctor’s kit, filled with rows of frosted containers. I search for the correct color; bottles of Chanel clink like ice in a glass as my hand touches them.
“Little magic potions,” she says, reading my mind. “Only the best for the dead. Nothing looks as smooth as Chanel.” I want to bottle Georgia’s soothing, gravelly voice and take it home with me, listen to it at night when I can’t sleep.
Trays of eye shadows, blushes, and self-tanners are off to the side. Lip gloss is stacked one on top of the other in round containers. Eyeliners and lip pencils stand in silver cans next to a large Lucite tray spilling with lipsticks and nail polish. On a shelf above the table are eight wigs on Styrofoam heads. They stand alongside bottles of hair dye, shampoos, and conditioners. Several glass jars, the kind you’d find in a penny-candy store, house cotton balls, Q-Tips, and triangle sponges which resemble tofu. A black silk case with white velvet trim is laid out on the table. It holds ten or so brushes. My hand strokes them lightly.
“I know it’s a sin to wear fur, but I make an amendment for brushes. That one’s for smudging, that’s for the brow, and that little angled baby is for eye contour. This one cost over a hundred dollars.” She holds up a long, thick brush with a Lucite handle and silver neck. “Go ahead, put your hand on that one over there.” She points to the largest brush in the set. “Don’t they feel great? Makes me wish I could just lay my fat, naked body on a blanket of mink. But that would be wrong.” She winks and turns back to the coffin.
On another shelf are bottles of perfume in pretty containers, gold rubber hoses are attached to each. “The light-colored ones are for the women,” she says, patting Mr. Molesworth’s face with powder. “The darker, fatter bottles have cologne. Even the dead deserve to smell good.”
I bring her the bottle of foundation. Her hand touches mine as she removes it from my fingers and sets it on the table next to her. “Mr. Molesworth was the unfortunate victim of a water skiing accident,” she says. The ski swiped most of his ear off and the tip of his nose. I watch as she reconstructs his face with putty. His ear looks almost perfect, and unless you got on top of him and put your face up to his, you couldn’t tell a thing. Even his nose looks well attached.
“If I’m doing facial reconstruction, I sometimes give ‘em a little lift, a better mug than what they came in with.” She looks up at me from her chair, putty still in her hand. She puts the tin down, then pushes away from the coffin and rolls over to her desk.
“Tell me about your mother,” she says, taking out a large notebook like the one on the mortician’s desk. She writes something on the top of the page with an antique pen. “I tend to do a better job if I have a good feel for who they were, what they like, dislike … ” Her voice trails off as she waits, expectantly, writing utensil in hand.
I take a few steps closer. Her handwriting is swoopy and elegant.
“A person’s makeup and choice of color say a lot about her personality.”
I don’t know what to say. How do you stay loyal to yourself and your mother at the same time? “She liked fine china, but hated to cook. She said it was too messy and made a perfectly clean kitchen dirty.”
Georgia stares at me, blinking.
“She played bridge,” I add, choking on my words, voice cracking. “She kept shopping bags from major department stores—Saks’s, Bloomingdale’s, Bergdorf’s—in all shapes and sizes.” I look down at my fingers. I’m supposed to give the eulogy and the best I can come up with is that she had a lot of bags? “She was very private,” I try again. “She loved beauty products, and always wore makeup. Her wigs were made out of the best hair money could buy. They were shipped here from a salon in Italy. When she went in for her operations, she insisted on wearing her lipstick and fake eyelashes. She drank Scotch and always wore slippers.” I look around the room, shaking my head in disappointment. I take a deep breath and continue. “She loved brooches. She had drawers full. It was the most incredible collection.”
Two times a year, she’d clean them. There were turquoise or sapphire spiders with silver legs and tiny stones for feet, emerald frogs with onyx eyes, sets of gold beetles and diamond bumblebees, blue and orange butterflies, and birds in every color. My favorite was a silver snake with a ruby tongue. I’d sit in the next chair, observing. Pink cleaner was for gold or silver pins, solution for those with intricate design or gems. There were also two bowls of water, one warm, the other soapy. Specially treated polishing cloths sat in a folded pile. My job was to hand her the tarnished pins, one at a time. I longed to dip them into the solution, or dry them after they’d been cleaned, but my mother was afraid I’d get fingerprints on them.
“Did she work?” The fat silver fountain pen scrapes effortlessly across the page. Even the way she writes gives life to the dead.
“She was a travel agent and stayed in the best hotels in Europe and Asia. She was always quality-testing hotels and restaurants.”
Georgia perks up. “Did you ever go away with her?”
“Once.” The graduation trip floods my memory for a moment.
“Is that what you do, too?”
“No. I’m a librarian at a high school.”
“Oh, well, that must be lovely. There’s something wonderful about books.”
I nod and force a smile.
“Don’t worry, sweetie. You’ve given me lots to go with. I feel as though I know exactly who your mother was.”
Georgia rolls back over to Mr. Molesworth and picks up the putty.
“Bet you thought I’d forgotten about you, Bert.”
She looks up at me. “There’s beauty in the dead. Something wonderful about giving them a last gift. Something they can take with them.” She beams. Rays from the sun stream in, illuminating the cave of the underworld, illuminating Georgia. “The dead who are brought here from the hospital are hardest to figure out. Poor folks have been stripped of all their character and material possessions.” She sighs. “Some people have no respect,” she mutters, staring off. “They toss you in and carry you out, not caring what happens to you in the interim.”
She shakes her body, as if trying to lose a memory, then looks back at me. “Don’t worry. She’s going to look marvelous. I promise.”I move toward the door. “I was wondering if I could come back after lunch. Maybe bring you a picture of her before she got sick. She was a perfectionist, and I just want … ”
“That’d be just fine. She’d love to know you were here.”
I turn to leave.
“You never told me her name. What can I call her?”
“Marion, I guess. Calling her Mrs. Resnick sounds too proper, don’t you think?”
Georgia nods. “Marion it is.” Then adds, “Beth, if you’d like, after we work on your mother, I’d be happy to do you, too.”
I bring a photo of my mother in her wedding gown, another of her in Italy, and a more recent shot of her wearing a wig. I bring Georgia lunch, too—a corned-beef sandwich and pickle, cream soda, and an iced tea, in case she’s not a fan of soft drinks. She’s already working on my mother when I get there, talking softly to her.
I knock and walk in. Georgia doesn’t look up.
“Your daughter’s here. A sweet thing, she is.”
I watch her stroke my mother’s nearly bald head, brush loose strands of hair away from her face. She’s so gentle with her, as if she’s known my mother for years, as if she were the most important person in Georgia’s life.
“She’s very pretty,” she says, shaking the Chanel bottle back and forth, the color blurring from her fast movement. The bottle clinks against her rings and bangle bracelets. “I think Warm Bisque is good. It’s one of my favorites. Makes me think of hot soup nourishing the soul.” Georgia lifts my mother’s rich, brown wig off the dummy and sprays gloss on it. I watch it disappear inside the coffin.
I take a few steps closer, see my mother lying in the red birch casket, dressed in the outfit I’d picked. She looks good in her black suit, her favorite pin, a frog sitting on a lily pad, clipped to her lapel. I went with the deluxe model—extra padding and special ventilation system. The funeral is tomorrow. I’ve found a rabbi, and Walter has taken care of the flowers, car service, and reception. I lean in, crane my neck, feeling slightly dizzy. Georgia has done a lovely job. She’s put the glow back in her cheeks, and given a smooth, even finish to her skin.
“You all right, darling? Maybe watching wasn’t the best idea.”
Minutes later, I find myself seated in a chair, head beneath my knees, in full plane-crash position. There’s a damp cloth around my neck. Georgia presents me with a cup of tea, then rests a hand on my back. The cup clanks in my grasp, hot chamomile spilling over the edges, drowning the saucer. “That was close,” she says, removing the cup from my grip. She places it on the wooden stand next to me, her hand still positioned on my back. It feels warm, solid. “I haven’t had anyone faint in here since Mr. Wellington died six years ago. His 100-year-old mother passed out the minute she saw the body. She’s still living on Fort Worth Street. Has a party every Fourth of July. It’s quite a hoot.”
A few days pass. Unable to return to work, I take the train to Rockville Centre and walk the ten blocks to the chapel.
Ready for my makeup lesson, I stand in her door frame, waiting to get noticed. A record is playing, though I can’t make out who the singer is. Her voice is low and husky, the song, sad.
Georgia is by the sink, cleaning brushes, soaking makeup sponges, and washing out glasses. I watch her rinse a bowl and flash to my mother cleaning her jewelry, her collection of pins spread along the table, a top cloth protecting the glass. I can almost smell the cleaning polish. I put my hand into my pocket and finger one of my mother’s pins. A thank-you for Georgia. It’s a butterfly made out of topaz.
Georgia jumps when she sees me. “Jesus.” She puts a hand to her chest. “Honey, you scared me. How long you been standing there?”
The word forever forms on my lips. “A few seconds—I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Ready to look gorgeous?” She draws out the word gorrrrgeousss and dries her hands on the cloth.
Her palm sweeps over my forehead as she pins back my hair with brown tortoiseshell barrettes. I tell her about the funeral, how lovely my mother looked, how many people came, how thankful I am to be here. I watch her run her fingers over the bottles of foundation. Like a psychic waiting for a signal from beyond the grave, she stops at one, then moves her hands two bottles over, settling on Matte Buff.
“Here we go.” She shakes the bottle, twists off the top. I’m nervous, like sitting in the dentist’s chair for a cleaning. I know it’s not going to hurt, but it still makes me feel queasy. I look into her face, try to keep myself together. Her black lashes are long and thick, her eyes hypnotizing. She’s wearing brown and purple eye shadows, Egyptian style.
She grins at me, then bends at the waist. “Ready?”
I smell her perfume, mixed with stale smoke. I flash to a summer night, visualize Georgia in her car, top down, hair down, too, smoking a cigarette and listening to Ella Fitzgerald.
She cups my chin in her hands. “I’m going to make you look beautiful,” she whispers, then kisses my forehead. I want to cry. I swallow hard, half smile, and look away. I can feel my eyes water.
“You have contacts?” she asks, dipping the sponge into the foundation.
I shake my head no, too scared to open my mouth, afraid a moan will escape.
The sponge is cold against my face. It feels thick and wet. My eyes flutter, and I count to twenty in order to calm down. Then I feel nothing. When I open my eyes, Georgia is frowning. The brown sponge sits in her hand, lifeless. Panic rises in my chest. I’ve done something wrong. Maybe I wasn’t still enough.
“This is going to sound crazy … ”
Please don’t stop. Please don’t say you just remembered something and that I have to go.
“… I’m a little embarrassed to admit this. I’ve gotten so used to working on people lying down that I don’t think this will do. Besides, it’s killin’ my back.” She looks around the room. “Let’s try the couch.” She clasps her hands together, then reaches for her rolling chair. Scraping past me, she arrives at the couch before I do. She pats the worn, brown-colored cushion. “Come on.”
