Sixfold Fiction Fall 2013
Page 6
Chapter Five: Small Talk. Small talk can be a difficult issue to attend to during times of grief, for bereaved and comforter alike. Fitting topics of conversation to engage with mourners include, but are not limited to: the weather, fishing, games involving balls, and the fullness of the life of the deceased. Happy memories of the deceased are generally welcome, as well. Unseemly topics include, but are not limited to: the last will and testament of the deceased, queries about putting down the deceased’s bad dog, statements regarding the lovely appearance of the corpse, statements regarding how the deceased is in a better place now, and queries regarding the suffering of the deceased. She had lung cancer. Of course she fucking suffered. I just want to smack Loretta Gray in the head. How is that okay to ask? For the first time in round two of calling hours, I cry. And this stupid black suit only has fake pockets. See Chapter Two: Attire. It is most fortuitous for mourners to wear clothing with pockets suitable to containing Kleenex. I find a box of scratchy, generic, funeral home tissues, but it’s empty. I wipe at my eyes with my arm, smearing foundation on my suit sleeve. Chapter Two: Attire. The bereaved should forgo makeup for calling hours and the funeral service. The mourner’s face will be mottled from crying, anyway, and now is not the time for vanity.
Loretta Gray has me cornered. She’s one of those women who wears pastel polyester suits. “What did you tell Austin when she died?” she asks.
Advice for the bereaved: try to retain your composure when faced with idiotic questions. “I told him Aunt May’s body got sick and stopped working, and that she died,” I say. “That’s what all the websites said to do.”
Loretta “tsk tsk tsks” and tips her head to the side. “Poor fellow. Do you think he understands?” She gazes over to where Austin sits on the carpet playing with race cars.
Let me just go over and ask him, Loretta. Son, do you understand that Aunt May is dead and that we’ll never, ever see her again? Do you get that, kid? That she’s dead, dead, dead? That she’s never coming back?
“I don’t know,” I say.
Loretta purses her lips. She shakes her index finger at me. “What you need to do,” she says, “is pick him up and show him the body. Make him hold her hand for ten whole seconds so he doesn’t think she’s just sleeping.”
“Why would I do that?”
“You don’t want him to think he’ll go to sleep and not wake up, too.” Loretta looks at me, eyes wide like I’m the dumbest parent in the world. “He needs to understand that May has gone to rest in the loving arms of Jesus.”
“Right,” I say.
She pats my arm. “The Lord never gives us more than we can handle,” she says. “Keep your chin up.” And she walks off to assault my mom.
A cautionary note to comfort-givers: be advised that mourners are in particularly precarious frames of mind and may, in fact, snap at any given moment. I go to the coat closet at the front of the funeral home and root around in my purse for my cell phone. I’m going to call Royce and get out of here. I rustle and shuffle and I can’t find it. I can’t find a goddamned thing. I pull out a brush, a tampon, a race car. I throw them all on the floor, and then I throw the purse down. “Very dramatic, kid,” Aunt May says in my head. I kneel down beside my pile of crap and lean back on my heels. I feel empty, turned inside out. I shove everything back in my purse and sit down on the floor.
“Okay?” It’s Nate. He’s got his thumbs hooked in his pant pockets. At least somebody read the subheadings for Chapter Two. Nate holds out a tissue and folds himself down beside me. We sit in the coat closet. When I look up I see Nate’s face is red. I lean my head against my brother’s shoulder and I don’t say a word.
The preacher has a speech impediment, or else he thinks it sounds extra holy to over-enunciate the word “Lord” so it sounds like “Loo-ard.” I shift in the folding wooden chair and glance around. Dad leans forward, elbows on his knees like he’s engrossed in a particularly tight football game. Austin gazes at the ceiling, his mouth moving in an absent ba ba ba motion, singing under his breath. Charlotte’s hair falls over her face as she rubs her forehead. Nate slouches. And my mother heaves with full-on, shoulder-shaking, snot-running sobs.