The Joy of Funerals, page 8
The velvet is soft, the fabric warm from the sun. I lie down, feeling foolish.
“All right, here we go.” I want to rub the side of my face against her nubby wool shawl and tell her the story of my life. Tell her not to leave me. Ask her to just hold me for just a few minutes, long enough to pretend I’m not alone.
“This isn’t working. I’m sorry, darlin’. You’re just too low.”
My chest tightens, heart pounds.
She turns her head toward the coffin. “Would you mind? Old habits die hard.”
I walk hazily to the casket, the sound of Georgia’s squeaking chair trailing behind me. The room looks wrong, fuzzy and out of focus.
“Go ahead, crank her open.”
I place a hand on the top, feel the cool, glossy lacquered wood as I raise the frame open. I step out of my shoes, move them with my foot off to the side, making sure they’re neatly aligned.
Georgia holds my arm and helps me in as I hoist one foot off the ground and swing it into the padded cream lining. Another hand is placed firmly on the lower frame, and I hop on my right foot a few times before lifting myself into the large box. I slide my legs in, thinking of a magician sawing their assistant in half. The coffin smells of cedar and is surprisingly cozy with its padded silk interior, cushioned bottom. The small, confined space feels comforting somehow.
“This is for Mrs. Donavan. She’s coming in a few hours.” Georgia shakes her head from side to side, bites down on her lower lip. “Terrible, terrible tragedy.” She reaches for her glass of iced tea. She sips daintily through a straw, leaving an imprint of bright red lipstick behind. “Only forty-one. This is one of the more expensive coffins. You’re lying in an $11,000 mobile home.”
My eyes feel heavy. Another record drops down from the holder and onto the player. Patsy Cline’s low, aching voice drifts through me. “Crazy, I’m crazy for feeling so lonely … ”
“Sometimes I take a nap in them if I don’t have another client coming for a few hours.” She reaches for her pack of Parliaments. “You don’t mind, do you? I never smoke when I’m working, but I so need one.” She slips one out from the case and puts it in her mouth. I hear the click of her lighter, see the red tip of the cigarette glow. “Once I fell asleep here over the weekend. I had a wretched cold and took too much Nyquil. I got dizzy, and next thing I know, it’s Monday morning and crotchety old Walter is shaking me awake. When I looked up at him, he was really pale. For a moment, I thought, shit, one of my clients is coming back for touch-ups.” She laughs, blowing smoke rings away from my face.
“Crazy” floats in the background. I feel sleepy. A brush sweeps lightly across my right cheek, soft as chick fur. In the sixth grade, we hatched a chicken in an incubator. Each of us got to hold it for a few minutes. I lay motionless, as I did years ago in my father’s bed, afraid to breathe, afraid Georgia will stop working on me. I think about my father in the hospital, the way he looked before he died. I think of my mother lying in the ground, her body cold, her soul lonely.
Georgia runs a thumb back and forth over my forehead. “Ssshhhh,” I hear her saying, “it’s okay. It’s okay.” Her voice is like a lullaby, soft and soothing, like the blush brush skimming over my face. I’m not sure why she’s calming me. “Try not to cry, honey. The makeup will stain the lining.” Her voice has a caring, teasing quality.
I do what I’m told.
I lie as quietly as possible and pretend that I’m dead.
Post-Dated
Go with the optimistic outlook of a woman awaiting execution.
Practice your best flirtatious smile in the bathroom mirror of the restaurant as you talk yourself into believing that this could be the one—the ambitious, caring, honest, funny, wonderful guy you’ve been looking for. Smile to yourself as you think you will have the best marriage of all your friends. That waiting has its own rewards. When all your girlfriends are getting a divorce, they will be the ones calling you at midnight, crying to your husband as they apologize for phoning so late. Your groggy spouse will whisper supporting words to your women friends before handing you the receiver: “You’re better off,” “He’s doing you a favor,” “You deserve to be happy …” When you get on the phone, it will be your friends who say, “What a great guy he is.” “Gee, who would have thought.” You will smile at the irony as you listen to them sob.
Check your watch and mentally kick yourself for having gotten here so early. Perhaps you should have let him pick you up. Wonder if this makes you look anxious and easy. Why did you agree to meet this person who, you are told, is everything you could possibly want in a man? If he’s so great, why then, at thirty-six, is he still single? Ask the same question of yourself.
Despite your reluctance, you really do want to share your life with someone. You honestly love the idea of having both your voices on the machine, reading the Times in bed, brunching on Sundays with other couples, and becoming a Norman Rockwell painting—though at this point you’d settle for Andy Warhol.
Think about your sister, the married one, as your mother puts it when she describes both of you to other people. Her husband’s a lawyer. A successful one who works at a big firm. Your sister doesn’t know he made a pass at you last year at Thanksgiving. She is unaware that you were not the first. That he takes long business trips. That he cheats often. Several months ago, you saw him with another woman at a restaurant. He pretended to ignore you when you passed by, only to accost you in the restroom later, begging you not to tell.
Hate the way you always feel like a third wheel the moment friends say there’s no room in the car for you. If you were with someone, that would never happen. Admit to yourself how your heart sinks a little when your girlfriends enter, hands clasped to their husbands, voices melding into each other. While applying mascara to your blue eyes, remember how terrible you felt last month while dining with your old college roommate and her spouse. When the check arrived, he asked you for one-third of the bill. Your girlfriend sipped coffee as you both watched him take your cash and replace it with his gold card. Wonder who you will go to parties with—if you are, for that matter, invited to any. Dread the holidays, all holidays, even ones you don’t celebrate, like Kwanzaa. Perhaps tonight’s date will end all this.
Start to have doubts as you stand under the fluorescent light, your makeup sprawled across the marble top. Ask yourself what the problem could be. You’re a good conversationalist. You talk to both your parents, buy American-made products, and hold down a good job. Your teeth are relatively white and not crooked. Your hair, a rich brown, is clean and bouncy. Your skin is clear. Consider the fact that your friends might be right—perhaps your expectations are too high. Dismiss this thought by insisting you are worth more. Much more. You deserve the best. Talk yourself into believing this by claiming your married friends were just lucky. Hit the soap dispenser until the last drop of pink goo comes dripping out, just enough to wash your hands with while you contemplate whether everyone meets their husbands in college. Maybe you, too, should have majored in an “M-R-S Degree” instead of anthropology.
Do a final study in the mirror. Remember some hurtful remark your mother made years ago, Guys hate women with stiff hair, as you add more spray to your already coiffed do. Think about your parents’ relationship and realize you’d rather spend an eternity living alone than living like them. Wonder if one really can break a cycle.
Move out from the bathroom and into the bar area while wondering if this date will let you order an appetizer or if he will make you pay for half the bill, or if he’ll talk about his ex all night while picking his teeth with the edge of the Sweet’N Low packet during coffee.
Once in the bar section, survey the crowd and search for your blind date. When no one else looks as if they, too, are trying to look like they’re meeting someone, play the “I’d-go-out-with-you” game with the other patrons. Make eye contact with a handsome man sitting on the third stool, then make eye contact with his girlfriend. Take two steps away from the couple.
Order a drink. Take one long sip. Feel the coolness go down your throat. Feel hungry. Think of how many lonely people there are in the world. Compare yourself to your neighbor who lives on the fifteenth floor. The one who smokes in the elevator, shuffles around the lobby in her slippers and housecoat with holes made by cigarettes, looking like an older, uglier version of Bette Davis before she died. Insist that will never happen to you. You are better off. You are out, standing next to pretty people and men in expensive suits, drinking white wine, waiting for the man who will change your world. Your life is full. Yes, full indeed.
Glance at an open menu by the bar. First scan it to see what appeals to you. When you see nothing, read it more slowly. Cautiously. When your eyes rest on the lobster ravioli in a thick cream sauce, force yourself to jump down to “Fish.” Brain food. Food that looks good on your plate. Decide to order the sole. Not the Dover sole, since it’s the most expensive, but the Boston sole. He will be impressed. He will think, You are a sensible orderer. He will share this information with his mother when he recaps the evening. She in turn will tell yours, who will repeat it to her friends. Her friends will think your mother has done a swell job raising you. After all, you knew to order something expensive, but not too expensive. This will end up on the ten o’clock news. People will call and congratulate you. Others will e-mail or write little notes on cards that appear in the mail for free, each asking for advice on dining and dating. This could change your profession. You could stay home, raise the children, work part-time—all because you ordered sole and not something fatty and rich like you actually wanted.
Look at your watch again. Mr. Blind Date is nine-and-a-half minutes late. Eye the door. Sigh.
Late-Man finally enters the restaurant, looking disheveled, in jeans and no tie. Observe that he is the only one dressed in casual wear. Try not to appear disappointed that he looks more like Mel Brooks than Mel Gibson. Shake hands. Overlook the fact that his handshake is like a dead fish, clammy and warm. Look to see if his fingernails are dirty. This will decide your future. Visualize yourself doing endless loads of laundry, beer cans strewn around the plush mint-green living room carpet bought on sale at Sears, while you make three different meals for your very picky children, Sally, Cindy, and Jared, who is allergic to peanuts, a genetic gift from your mother-in-law. His nails, thank God, are clean. Breathe a sigh of relief until you realize there is clear polish on them.
Richard looks nervously around the restaurant as he tells the hostess he’d prefer to sit away from the window. Stare at him oddly. Follow the hostess to the middle of the room. Watch her lay down the menus. You and Richard sit down at the same time. You both smile at this. Make a mental note that he has nice eyes, soft and brown.
Appear interested as he tells you the story of his life. Every now and then, frown or furrow your brow. When he asks if you hate blind dates as much as he, say something witty like, “Blind dates are a level of hell Dante forgot to include in the Inferno.” He will laugh. When he does, he reminds you of a brown-eyed Pinocchio turning into a donkey.
The waiter finally appears. You used to order just an entree and a Diet Coke, thinking a man will appreciate a cheap date. But then you heard through a friend last year that your date interpreted your diet drink as a “person who wasn’t interested in having a good time.” Now you order an appetizer, entree, wine, and coffee. If your date is really irritating, you tack on dessert.
Tonight, order mixed greens, the good-girl sole, and another white wine. You have learned most dates look and sound better blurry. Besides, he’s already told you he has a large portfolio. Wonder if that’s the only thing of his that’s large.
Look around the room at other couples, all of whom appear as though they are able to have relationships. Pick out the dates from the married ones. The table of four couples is having a wonderful time. There is laughter and bottles of wine, and hugging and slapping of hands, and girlfriends leaning over chairs, whispering into each other’s ears. Feel a stab of longing. Disregard it as you look back at Richard, who smiles and lifts an eyebrow.
He orders the lobster pasta you wanted.
“Wow,” he says, when the waiter walks away. “Fish is really sensible. Wish I could stick to that, but hey, you only live once.”
The conversation is flat, dull, and tasteless, similar to your fish. He quotes stocks, not Dorothy Parker. He tells you about his last relationship, which ended eight months ago, that his brother had a nervous breakdown last year, but his family doesn’t discuss it, and that he just bought a boat.
When he takes a massive forkful of his meal, he bites down on the silver. This sounds like a nail scraping against your bones. He downs his gin and tonic, holds his glass up to his ear and shakes it loudly for the waiter and the three couples at the surrounding tables to hear. You want to kill the man sitting across from you, the man with the large portfolio, the fattening food, the good job.
Then something happens. As he tells you a story about his golden retriever, Lox, his whole face changes. Love and affection spread across it like a rippling wave.
“He was born with one eye. I used to tell people he was winking at them.”
Perhaps you were too quick to judge. Maybe he’s apprehensive or insecure about being on a date. Perhaps there is a good man underneath all his pretentiousness. Catch something soft in his eyes as he removes a photo of Lox from his leather wallet.
“I had him since he was two months old. I put him down last summer.” For a moment, you think you see a tear. Remember the clear polish. Wonder if he’s gay. Practice Richard’s last name until it flows easily from your mouth. Then insert your first name with his last. Realize that Loretta Mulder sounds like an aging soap opera star rather than a museum curator. Say That’s my husband by the onion dip quietly, as you watch Richard eat. Say husband over and over until the word no longer makes you anxious.
During dinner, his cell phone rings. Try not to act irritated or surprised when he answers it, his mouth full of creamy pasta.
“Hello?” He looks around nervously, his eyes eventually settle back on you. “Can’t, I’m on a date.” He laughs. Then his face turns angry. “l said I’d fix it.” Pause. “Well, they’ll have to wait.” Pause. “Not sure yet—think the jury’s still out on that one.” He laughs again, as if he’s trying to look more important than he really is. “Six, six and a half. Got to go.” He hangs up and explains, “That was a friend who wanted a stock price.” Make a mental note he is a liar. Feel like a sucker for falling for the dog story.
Dishes are cleared, the tablecloth cleaned. You have a cappuccino with skim milk. Fat-Boy orders port and chocolate mud cake smothered in raspberry sauce, which matches the color of your lipstick. He invites you to sail with him. Decline politely, explaining that you get violently seasick, which is how you feel now.
He asks to walk you home. Then asks to use your bathroom. Figure he’s already in your apartment, he might as well stay. Despite his boring conversation, his insipid comments, and pathetic demeanor, he is a good kisser. Gentle and breathy. You are surprised by this, by how nice it is to feel something.
Roll over and look at the stranger lying next to you. In the morning light, he looks worse than you remember. In fact, he looks like your father—a younger, shorter version.
Feel empty.
Try not to cry.
Do not offer to make him breakfast or coffee. Sigh heavily. See if this prompts some change. When he doesn’t move, sigh again. If this fails, pretend you just remembered you have a 9:00 a.m. yoga class, and if you cancel, your gym will revoke your membership. Tell him it’s imperative that you go. Tell him your girlfriend, Heather, is waiting for you. Continue your fabrication, explaining that she is holding your spot by the window and if you don’t show she will stop speaking to you.
Eventually, he leaves.
Change the sheets.
Strip the bed.
Spray Lysol.
Shower.
Come out of the bathroom, notice your answering machine light is blinking. Instinctively know that it’s your mother. Do not play the message.
When Fat-Boy-Bad-Blind-Date-Man calls the next day, say you are on the other line. Tell him you will call him back. Don’t.
When your blind-date outfit returns from the cleaners, rayon black pants, matching black jacket, and lilac silk shirt, bury it in the back of your closet. Tell people you have met someone special so they’ll stop offering to fix you up.
Another Saturday rolls around. Ask your friend what her plans are while you look through a pile of stained take-out menus. Refuse to feel left out when she replies that she and her boyfriend and two other couples are having dinner at Lotus. Think about asking if you can join. When she doesn’t offer to change the reservation from six to seven, hang up. Repeat the story to your mother, who asks you, “Wouldn’t you feel uncomfortable sitting there anyway?”
Proceed immediately to the kitchen. Eat something. Anything. Realize shopping for one sucks as your eyes rest on a large bar of Cadbury chocolate.
The next day you are on the subway, sitting too close to a man who keeps smelling you. His big head is tilted in your direction and it looks as if he’s trying to place your scent. In order to avoid any further contact, try to look preoccupied by staring at other passengers. Opposite you, an old lady is reading The New York Post. Written in an overly simplistic black headline is, Man Found Dead While Still On Cell Phone. Fall out of your seat. Wasn’t this the person you were just out with? The Good-Kisser-Stiff Drinker-Late-Date-Man your mother fixed you up with?
Ask the owner of the paper, an unattractive woman who looks as if she’s part of a traveling circus, if she would be kind enough to let you see the article. Offer to buy her paper at twice the newsstand price. When she looks at you as if you were demented, relay the whole story. She stares at you blankly, and taking pity, eventually tears out the page. Not the whole page because she is still reading the back of it—the Styles page, and whoever wore a see-through ball gown to the Met Gala is more important than seeing if you almost dated a felon, gambler, or drug dealer.
