The Joy of Funerals, page 9
Look at the picture. Blind-Date-Boy’s bloody face and body is smashed up against the cement steps of his townhouse. His cell phone rests near his cracked skull. The photo is not flattering—not that many people look better dead than alive—but he looks more bloated than you remembered. From the photo, it’s hard to assess if he had a heart attack, which caused him to fall and thus hit his head on the steps, or if he was pushed. Regardless of how he died, you still expect to feel something, something for this man whom you saw two weeks ago, whom you watched eat poorly, drink too much, and whose extra, unused condom still resides in your nightstand.
Skim the article for details and to see if your name is mentioned—not that you think it would be. You haven’t spoken to him since that morning in your bed. But you never know. He may have told a neighbor or best friend about your date.
Think now that you can no longer have him, that maybe he was the one. You did have that one moment in the restaurant … Maybe he’s just not good on fix-ups? Now you’ll never know. Now there’ll be no second date, no second chance at a possible wonderful life with a possible Mr. Right.
Feel cheated. Perhaps you could have fallen in love on the second date, fallen for his family, his mother and father becoming surrogate parents—better, more supportive than your own. His brother, the one who had the nervous breakdown that no one talks about, could have become like a brother to you. You could have taken family vacations to Florida, Puerto Rico, the Bahamas.
Wonder if he really was that bad. Your vision at 4:00 a.m. that night was cloudy and the Xanax you took made you feel swirly and dizzy. Maybe you could have changed him into the man you wanted him to be. How crucial are manners? These things can be taught. Armani suits bought, hair fixed—he did say he loved his dog. He could be capable of the important things—love, comfort, kindness. Perhaps your list is too long, maybe you’ve seen one-too-many romance movies. That thing about refusing to settle, all the blah, blah, blah of wanting the perfect relationship is overrated. You don’t know anyone with a perfect marriage, or a good marriage, or even a decent marriage. And what good is a list on New Year’s Eve or Valentine’s Day, or on Saturday nights which spin into lonely Sundays with nothing but the overwhelming Times and reruns of Austin Powers on HBO to keep you company? What does one’s ability to quote Dorothy Parker imply anyway? What does love really mean if your soul mate, your only Mr. Right, was found dead, facedown, covered in his own blood on the cement steps of his townhouse? You didn’t even get a chance to see how his home was decorated.
Pretend Richard (now that he’s dead, you’ve decided not to call him Dick, out of respect) is still alive and allow yourself to fantasize. See yourself moving Mission furniture bought at Bloomingdale’s into his home while the Salvation Army removes chipped Ikea and an old futon from his bedroom. See dinners with his friends and yours, lounging in your large living room, playing Celebrity. Visualize filling out the registry at Bloomingdale’s, laughing as you both get confused with the computer. Think of all the exercise you could have gotten from walking up and down those steps, the great condition your thighs would have been in for the coming summer. Now it’s all over. Done.
Envision the funeral. Think of how uncomfortable it would have been. To have to stand at the service saying, “Thanks for coming” to strangers, sandwiched in between his mother on your left, his father on your right, the nervous-breakdown brother off to the side somewhere muttering to himself, while you receive compassionate nods from drawn faces. “How sad.” “How did you meet?” “Were you going to set a date?” Then you’d have had to recap the entire evening and your relationship to these well-meaning strangers whose only connection to you is a man you’re not sure you even liked.
What if you had married him? Think of all the gifts needing to be returned, water pitchers and glassware from Tiffany’s, cake platters and silver from Pottery Barn. What about the cash you would have received from family and friends? Surely they’d expect you to give it back. And you and Dick would have already spent it on your honeymoon trip to Hawaii.
Realize you’d be a widow, a widow in your late thirties. A new box to check, a new way people would look at you, their gaze at your forehead or chin rather than at your eyes. You’d be the new whisper at all the clubs, your mother’s friends would be overly supportive, their heads shaking sadly from side to side. So young. What a shame.
Picture yourself at 12-step meetings with other newly widowed women. Laugh at the irony. That after a lifetime of being single and trying so hard to find the perfect person, or at least settling for someone nearly perfect, you, once again, would be single.
At 5:23 a.m. the next day, have a revelation. What if he was in the Mafia? He didn’t want to sit near the window—perhaps he was afraid of being shot. This could have been your life, looking for shooters in restaurants, married to a man whom you never really loved, with shifty business relationships and illegal transactions. Who knows what the hell he did once he was at sea on his boat, probably bought with laundered money from loan sharks or drug dealers or who knows what. The paper said accident, but isn’t that a term tossed around merely to hide the truth? And who has a heart attack at thirty-six, then falls just so, cracking his head against the step? This all seems a little too fishy to you. Wasn’t his father a cop or something? Now it’s all becoming clear.
Comprehend the fact that one good dog moment is not worth a lifetime of misery. You are worth more. You don’t need to sell out. You have plenty of time to meet Mr. Right.
Pace in your bedroom, excitedly making lists of places where you could meet men, singles parties you wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen at. There are book clubs to join, exercise classes to take, and charity functions to attend.
Hope returns. God has spared you. Not only is Stiff-Drinker-Good-Kisser-Illegal-Transaction-Blind-Date-Man out of your life, you never have to worry about running into him with his new fiancée, or having him pass you in the street with his coworkers only to hear him mutter as you pass by, still in earshot, She was a great fuck but what a bitch. Realize death has done you a favor. Yes, death has saved you from a life of anguish and woe.
Versions of You
At work, Shannon stared longingly at Lilly, the pretty, stick-thin, twenty-six-year-old Asian legal assistant. She observed Lilly’s slick, almost rehearsed movements as she swiveled in the chair, cradled the receiver against her skinny neck, and fingered a paper clip.
Every day, Lilly donned the same outfit: V-necked sweaters which fell off her left shoulder, revealing skimpy, sleeveless Lycra dresses underneath. The only subtle changes were in tones and material, all of which came in shades of grays, tans, and blacks.
Shannon watched intensely, wondering how long it would take this woman—a girl, really—who sat across from her at work to have a nervous breakdown. The signs were clearly there. The all-night smoking sessions, the diet consisting of Marlboros and Diet Coke, and the juggling of two jobs—the one she had here and the one her social calendar dictated.
She checked her messages at home while she watched six co-workers gather around the coffee machine, sharing stories of courtroom dramas, client tantrums, and lavish business lunches with celebrities in chic SoHo restaurants. As sugar got passed around hand to hand, like a game of telephone, the story changing slightly with each person, and laughter melded into one sound, she felt more and more alone.
There were no messages for her. Just her own voice telling her no one was there. She was tempted to say something so the light would be blinking when she walked in.
It was almost four when she logged off the internet. The office was still a whirl of hectic interaction and she wished everyone would settle down.
At 4:00 p.m. exactly, the bells from St. Patrick’s Cathedral began to chime, their booming gongs sounding like a mournful chorus. Though the office rarely did anything as a group, Shannon pictured everyone taking a moment of silence—the phones could be put on mute and a machine would record incoming messages, people would not be allowed to walk around, eat or drink, or be on the computer. Her co-workers, poised at their desks, would bow their heads, hands clasped in front of them, while others would stare out in a dreamy, meditative state, as if allowing the music to engulf them. But these were unrealistic wishes. If only she could blink them to freeze like Samantha did on Bewitched. Then she’d be able to enjoy her moment.
On most days, she would get up a moment or two ahead of time, stand alone by the large windows and stare at the magnificent church across the street, their Fifth Avenue view completely unobstructed. She would hold her breath, close her eyes, and listen to the saintly, overpowering music. If she placed her hands on the glass, she could feel the vibration, the power.
Some days, she remained in her seat and just watched the office function without her help. She’d sit and watch Lilly as she talked on the phone, voice yelling over the bells.
As far back as she could remember, her mother had never instilled any religious values in her. But Shannon took comfort in knowing, or at least hoping, there was a God. A large, omnipresent father figure watching over her. This was her gift back. Perhaps the better person she was, the better her life would get. She tried going to church, even attempted to join the choir, but she had a terrible voice and couldn’t carry a tune. She was going to mouth her way through the musical numbers until she found out there were auditions.
At home, she turned on the news, more for the background noise than the show, fed Mr. Chips, and opened a bottle of cheap wine. The living room was banal. The whole place was. No matter how many magazine articles she read, all promising a metamorphosis of sorts if only she did this, or adjusted that, added more yellow, opened up the room here and moved the sofa there, nothing had worked.
She was in the middle of eating a tuna sandwich and watching Wheel of Fortune when the knock came at her door. The word was Oklahoma City, and she’d solved the puzzle before any of the contestants.
“Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you.” He tilted his hat, bent his out-of-shape body forward, and grimaced as he strained back up. The man looked tired and near faint. His disheveled hair, slumped shoulders, and fat tie smattered with coffee stains reminded her, somehow, of her father.
It was just past 7:45 p.m. when she offered him water, which he readily accepted. His hand shook as his callused fingers and nails, thick with dirt, clenched the old Bugs Bunny jelly jar. He looked at it and smiled, his yellowed teeth reflecting off the clear glass.
He had been out all day in the heat without making a single sale. “You’re my last hope,” he told her, still standing outside on her porch. She wasn’t sure if this was a line or not. Salesmen would say anything to a potential customer; she knew this firsthand. Her father had been a salesman, too. Girls ain’t cut out for selling, he told her. No daughter of mine is gonna sell nothing.
She was six when he left. Four when he broke her heart. Ten months when he last held her. She couldn’t remember his first or last name. The only recollections she had were of her mother calling him honey or your father. Later he became that asshole and Shannon was forbidden to bring him up. He was never mentioned. Her mother even changed her name from Sarah to Shannon, insisting it was important for her daughter to start life over, then insisted she take her mother’s maiden name. The pictures were removed; the articles of clothing he had left behind—ratty suits and bowling shirts—were tossed outside to rot. Eventually they were picked up with the rest of the trash, vanishing like him. But unlike her father, she believed this man—this man with the matted hair, the worn shoes, the gray wool pants whose hem had been lengthened too many times.
Without thinking, she invited him in, eager for the company.
She watched him take out the book, the letters “KL” embossed in gold.
“A combination of two letters comes every week. You pay in installments. If you’re not satisfied after you’ve received all twelve, you can send ‘em back for a full refund.” He smiled like a game show host, an older, uglier version of Pat Sajak trying to make the parting gifts look better than they really were. A bead of sweat formed at his brow. She watched as it gathered momentum and made its way down his face. He wiped at it with the back of his hand and continued his sell.
She wanted to help him, but what would she do with a new set of encyclopedias? She had no children, no one to give the leather-bound books to as a gift. The print was too small for her mother to read, so donating them to the nursing home wouldn’t do her mother any good. Those ladies prefer playing cards and score pads, TV Guide, and crossword puzzles.
He laid the large book down heavily on her wooden coffee table. “Well, what’d ya think, miss?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” Shannon said, searching for words, “I just don’t have the need for them. But they’re lovely. Really.”
He put the book back in his bag, sighed loudly, locked the old case, and stared out into the room. When he showed no intention of leaving, she cleared her throat and stood. Moving slowly, he gathered the rest of his things and hoisted himself out of her peach-colored chair.
They walked to her door in silence; he thanked her for her kindness and hospitality. She watched as he climbed into his lime green 1974 Chevy, started the old car, and pulled away. She lingered for a moment, staring at the trail his suitcase had made in the dirt.
He had left his card on her table. The paper was thin. Cheap card stock. The words had faded and were cracked. The first name was easier to decipher. It started with a B and seemed rather long. Benjamin? Bartholomew? His last name was a challenge. Most of the word had been worn away. All that was left were bits and pieces of letters, none of which formed a single, readable consonant or vowel. The title, however, was mostly intact. Books and Nooks, Salesman, 516-997-6564. She left the card on the table.
The answer came to her at 4:00 that morning. It was as if God himself had awakened her out of a deep sleep with the word “Lilly” running through her head. She would call this Benjamin/ Bartholomew the salesman first thing in the morning. This would be her good deed. A good deed for two people. She could barely contain her excitement. She did deep breathing exercises like the ones she’d seen on TV talk shows to calm herself down and fall back asleep.
The card was sitting exactly where she had left it: it looked worse in the morning light, as if an elf had come and removed more letters in the middle of the night. She dialed the number, expecting to get a machine, too early for the old man to be up.
“Hello?” The voice sounded tired, like a moan.
“Is this Mr. … um, is this Ben?” She guessed.
“Speaking.”
“You visited my home the other day.”
“I visit many homes, miss.”
“I gave you some water?”
“A Bugs Bunny glass. Yes, I remember. What can I do you for?”
“I’ve decided to buy the encyclopedias. I have a friend at work who would love them.”
“Well, this must be my lucky day.” There was a trill in his voice, an excitement, and she could hear he was smiling. She hung up and hugged herself, her large arms squeezing her body as if to knock some enthusiasm out.
She heard Lilly’s edgy voice before she actually saw her. Lilly was always in a crisis. She either lost her keys, had been taken advantage of by a man she met in a bar, or something wasn’t working out the way she wanted.
Shannon ran up to Lilly the second her fatigued face appeared.
“Hi,” she said, bouncing in front of her.
Lilly was still wearing yesterday’s clothing, a black silk dress and sweater, which was draped over her bare shoulders. She reeked of smoke and liquor.
“I have a surprise for you.” The words fell out of her mouth.
“You do?”
Shannon nodded. “Yes, but it won’t be here until Friday—I ordered it for you.”
Lilly crinkled up her nose in confusion, then smiled. “Whatever. Thanks, I guess.” She moved past Shannon to her desk where she immediately picked up the phone, turning her back to the rest of the office.
This would work, Shannon thought. This would be her ticket in. She envisioned Lilly sitting at her desk, Shannon presenting the large book to her. Lilly would shout gleefully and wrap her skinny arms around Shannon. Then tears would well up in her eyes as she thanked her profusely.
The transition from co-workers to friends would happen naturally, easily. She pictured the two of them eating lunch, Lilly waiting for her by the elevator or the main reception area.
“Indian?”
“Sure,” Shannon would answer. And the two would nod, smile as if they had shared a secret, and off they’d go.
She visualized Lilly introducing her to her swanky friends, taking her to exclusive underground bars that played funky music and served drinks in frosted colored glasses. They would go shopping together, Lilly helping her find clothing that hugged her body in all the appropriate places. She saw herself in cable knits, sweater sets, silk shirts to help hide her fat body. She would even join a gym. Lilly’s gym. The two would be inseparable.
She waited nervously in her car outside the diner. Ben had called her machine saying the book was in and could they meet for a quick second at the restaurant by the train, since it would be more convenient for him. His day was jam-packed, and he would be going in the opposite direction to drop off two thousand napkins with witches, ghosts, and pumpkins for someone’s Halloween party.
