Suddenly, looking at that photograph that I hadn’t seen in years, I realized that the funny thing was, I was aware of it all—of my father’s meaningless insouciance, my sister’s pose, my mother’s tension, my own bland acceptance—even then, at the moment of that picture being snapped. I could even kind of remember thinking under my smile: We’re so weird!
Typical teenaged angst? If it wasn’t that, then what did I know then, or suspect, or sense? That my dad was such a lousy businessman that he was bound to fail? That he was playing around with other women? That my mother was hurt and sad and sick? Did I know that? Was it true?
I put the photos and albums away without looking at the rest of them, and turned to a box of Mom’s old clothes and shoes, but there wasn’t much… a dressy black chiffon… a strapless black taffeta… a black suit… a brown wool dress… a pair of black slacks with a black turtleneck sweater. I was struck by the fact that they were all dark: Did my mother always wear dark colors, or were these depressing tones some kind of symptom we should have noticed? Funny, I mostly remembered her in sunny yellow, in pinks and golds and whites and silvers. But maybe my memory had put her behind a romantic gauze curtain and painted her in happy pastels she never really favored? Funny, too, that Sherry and I, who could have fit easily into our mother’s old clothes, had chosen to pack them away in Sherry’s basement rather than wear any of them. Did we think it was catching? I asked myself bitterly. Were we afraid we’d catch her madness by wearing her sweaters? No, I decided, that wasn’t fair to us, or even true: We’d hidden them away in the secret hope that she would come home to wear them herself one day.
I got up and closed the door.
Then I slipped out of my funeral dress, my slip, and heels and pulled on my mother’s black wool slacks and her black turtleneck sweater. They were classic styles that would never go out of fashion and, what’s more, they fit me perfectly, although my throat felt a little tight under the turtleneck.
I knelt on the carpet again.
I’d brought her suitcase from the hospital here to Sherry’s house, since she was the family pack rat. Now I opened it. Brush. Comb. Kleenex. Toothbrush. More photographs, the ones I had taped to the wall in front of her bed. Jergens body lotion, her favorite.
I held the familiar yellow plastic bottle in my hands for a moment, feeling its curves, and then I pumped a dollop of Jergens into my palm. I put the bottle down and lifted my hand to my nose, and then I rubbed the lotion into my hands, working it up to my wrists, then touching it to my cheeks. Oh, I loved this rich, warm, feminine scent that reminded me so much of my mother, and that made my chest swell with sorrow and joy in equal, unbearable measure. Jergens. Nothing fancy. Practical. Off the shelf at the grocery store. But so creamy and soothing and sensual. And what did any of that say about my mother? That she was frugal? That she was vain, but not overly so, about her lovely skin? It was the only brand of lotion I remembered seeing around our house, and what did that fact imply? That she was consistent? Unimaginative? Secure? Insecure? Or maybe she only bought it because it was her mother’s favorite, too, but that—
“Shut up,” I said to the Jergens bottle. “You make me feel too much, and you tell me nothing at all.” I put it behind me so I couldn’t see it, and then I felt really sorry that I had spread it on my skin, because now I was stuck with the haunting, painful smell of it.
There was not much else in the suitcase.
I snapped it shut, then hid it behind other boxes we wouldn’t have to open for another thirty years.
“What’s left?” I asked myself.
Ah, everything from the funeral.
On the desk, I found a copy of Sherry’s order for two boxes of engraved “Thank You” notes. And the little white cards that had been attached to the flowers. And our copy of the contract with Harbor Lights for Mom’s funeral and burial. And the white, leather-bound visitor’s book that our friends and family and business associates and acquaintances had signed at the Visitation last night and at the funeral this morning.
I sat down in Lars’s favorite chair, and stroked the book’s binding.
GUESTS, it said.
I thumbed through the white, lined pages, touching the signatures, recognizing most of them, trying to decipher the others. Amazing, how very many people had shown up. How nice of them to say this, how very kind of them to say that.
And then I found it, the thing my subconscious had been looking for all along, ever since the graveside service.
My skin turned clammy and I felt sick when I saw it.
I don’t want to see this, I thought.
But I have to see this; it’s been waiting for me.
It was only a few words that were scribbled, nearly illegible, and so hard to read that probably no one else who had been waiting in line to sign the visitor’s book at the funeral home would have even tried to figure out what it said. But I had the time now, and no one was waiting impatiently behind me to sign this book. And so I was able—after considerable effort—to decipher the two words that were scribbled on the lines between the names of an old friend, Lucille Grant, and somebody whose name, Cecil Greenstreet, looked familiar, but which I couldn’t place.
“Forgive me,” the anonymous message said.
And suddenly I recalled the shove, and the two sentences whispered into my ear at graveside, fiercely, as if from some great emotion:
“It was an accident. Forgive me!”
A woman’s voice? Maybe. Did I recognize it at the time? No. Did I know her? Or him? Who could know? Who was she, who was she!
“It was an accident.”
What was?
“Forgive me!”
For what? For bumping into me, was that the accident she meant? But she had sounded so urgent about it, so demanding, surely a stumble wouldn’t produce that kind of whispered passion. But was it a stumble? Was it an accident that she shoved me? It had felt purposeful, that hand grasping my elbow, and then that body pressed against my back. Forgive you for what?
I said it out loud: “What accident? Forgive you for what?”
“Some nut,” Geof declared, after I trailed into the kitchen with the guest book and a repetition of my story of what I had begun to call The Incident at the Graveyard. He listened to me, but then all he said was, “You look nice; is that a new outfit?” He put his arms around his crew and all three of them beamed at me, and Geof said, “Did we do a great job, or what?”
“Superb,” I said, finally coming awake to the point he was trying to make to me, which was that there were children present. “You guys are a sodden mess, but everything else gleams. Thank you.” I bowed to them. “On behalf of the entire Cain/Guthrie/Bushfield clan, I thank you most sincerely.”
Ian and Heather broke away, and ran out of the room so quickly that I felt guilty.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking how that might be a story that would frighten them.” I plucked at the waist of my black sweater. “These were Mom’s. What do you think?”
“I think her daughter’s a knockout.” He finished drying his hands on a towel. “I also think that if Sherry catches you wearing them, she’ll make you cut them in half, right up the middle, so she gets her ‘fair share.’” He flapped the towel toward the kitchen table. “Let’s sit down. You can show me the book. Don’t worry about the kids; kids love being spooked.”
Geof sat across from me with the white book between his hands. He read the message and then tapped it with the middle finger of his right hand. “It’s one of those funeral freaks who show up at every service. Or it could be an apology from somebody who feels bad for not sending flowers, or for not visiting your mother in the hospital, or some damn thing.”
“Yes, it could be,” I agreed.
He looked at me with suspicion. “You’re easy to convince today.”
“I want you to convince me. I want to think it’s as you say, because I don’t know what to do if it’s anything else.”
“What else could it be, Jenny?”
<
br /> I shrugged helplessly.
“Why does it bother you so much?”
“You’re right, it bothers me a lot. Because, because—”
“It was kind of nasty, the shove.”
“Yes, it was, Geof. Startling. I almost fell onto Mom’s casket. And the person’s voice—”
“Angry, you called it, and demanding. And there’s maybe a meanness about this ‘forgive me’ business, too.”
“You think so, too?”
“I think that’s how it feels to you. Because why would a person write a mysterious thing like that in a guest book at a funeral? It seems screwy on the face of it, and self-centered, almost like a practical joke, but what’s the joke? On the whole, though, I think it’s more screwy than mean. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s out of the blue. There’s a lack of connection here that speaks to me of a person who’s not quite right in the head. And that would fit a funeral freak.”
I nodded.
He smiled. “I thought I sounded quite convincing.”
“Oh, you were.”
“But you’re not convinced?”
“I want to be.”
“And there’s nothing to do about it if you’re not.”
“There’s nothing to do about it.”
“Maybe there is.” He slapped his palms on the kitchen table and shoved his chair back. “Where do Sherry and Lars keep their phone book? Oh, I see it. Under the phone, where else?”
“What are you doing?”
He brought the phone and the Port Frederick telephone book back with him to the table and began to thumb through the Yellow Pages.
“Geof, who are you calling?”
“Harbor Lights Funeral Home.”
“555-3636.”
He shot me a questioning glance, his finger in the book.
“I’ve had one or two reasons to call them this week, you know.”
He dialed the number I gave him and asked to speak to Stan Pittman, Jr., who was the son of the owner and an old high-school friend of mine.
“Stan,” he said into the phone. “Geof Bushfield. Got a minute for a question? No—” He grinned at me. “We haven’t had any complaints about any missing bodies. Listen, Stan, do you get any of those people who regularly attend the funerals of people they don’t even know? Yes? Well, tell me this, what sorts of things do they sign in the guest books?” Geof looked disappointed in the answer. “Really, no strange messages? Sure, I understand that you don’t examine everybody’s guest book, but maybe you’d do me a favor. It’s for Jenny, really.” Geof winked at me and nodded, to indicate that Stan had promptly agreed to do it. “Some nut wrote the words ‘forgive me’ in the guest book at her mother’s funeral. There’s nothing to it, I’m sure, but would you take a glance through the guest books for the next few funerals? Especially if you see one of your ‘regulars’ coming in? And let me know if anything out of the ordinary shows up, all right? Thanks, Stan. I’m sure Jenny has already said this, but thank you for doing such a nice job with Mrs. Cain’s funeral.”
Across the table, I nodded my approval.
“Appreciate it, Stan,” he said, and hung up.
“Appreciate it,” I said to my husband.
He sniffed. “Well, hell, what’s the good of marrying a cop if he can’t solve a little something for you? And in the meantime, we won’t either of us jump to any conclusions, will we?”
“Not I,” I said demurely.
He cleared his throat.
“Oh, dear,” I said. “This is the part where you’re going to give me some advice.”
“Jenny, do you think maybe you’re trying too hard to find the meaning of life in every little thing?”
“No.”
“Well, then maybe I’m trying too hard to make you feel better, but I don’t think this book or The Incident at the Graveyard means anything, not one damn thing.” He reached across the table to touch me. “Now here comes the advice. Take it easy for a while. Be good to yourself. These have been hard years, and you deserve a chance to slow down… about everything. Will you?”
I thought about that for a moment, and then said, “I’ll try.” I stood up. “See me rise slowly from this chair. See me walk sedately around the table. See me bend down at all deliberate speed to slowly, slowly, slowly…” I kissed him.
Cheers, whistles and applause broke out from the doorway, where Ian and Heather had been eavesdropping.
The next day, Sunday, I moped around the house trying to take Geof’s advice. I slept a lot, I wrote thank-you notes. A number of condolence letters had already arrived, and I’d carried away from my sister’s house the little pile of white florist cards. Most people would be sending contributions to the mental health society, as we had requested in the obituary (at least they’d gotten that right!). But there were some who either hadn’t seen the notice in time, or who just plain liked to send flowers anyway, no matter what. My old-fashioned trustees were among that group, and there was a card, crowded with their names: Lucille Grant, Edwin Ottilini, Pete Falwell, Roy Leland, Jack Fenton. There was one from an old boyfriend, another from the woman who does my hair. And one from… Cecil Greenstreet? There was that name again, as it had been signed in the guest book below the anonymous inscription, but who was he? I thought I ought to recall, but I couldn’t. Maybe I was thinking of that old actor, Sydney Greenstreet. Or was I thinking of Mr. Green Jeans from the “Captain Kangaroo” show? Whoever. It would come to me. It was late in the afternoon by the time I started writing the thank-you notes.
The ninth one down in the pile made me call out: “Geoff”
“What?” he called up from the basement, where he was getting a head start on cutting stakes for tomato plants. When I didn’t answer, he bounded up the stairs and came into the living room where I sat, still in my bathrobe and slippers. “What?”
I held out the little white card by the tips of my fingers, as if it were something nasty. Which it was, to me.
“It’s another one,” I told him, and my voice shook.
“Another one what?” He came nearer.
“Another one of those stupid mysterious messages.”
He bent down, peered at it, and read aloud: “April 10, 1971.” What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, but I think Dad put Mom in the hospital around then.”
Geof straightened and then stared at the card for a moment. He switched his gaze to me, and then back to the card. “Don’t move,” he said, and walked out of the room. When he returned, he had a plastic food storage bag in his hand. He opened it and held it under the card, and I let the damn thing drop in. Then he sealed the bag.
“I’m not sure why I’m doing this,” he said.
“It probably doesn’t mean anything,” I said.
We gazed at each other.
“And if we pick up any prints, they’ll be the florist’s,” he added.
“I know.”
We remained like that for a moment, me on the couch, him standing with the bag in his hand. Then he said, “Well, hell, at least we can call the florist.”
“On Sunday?”
He smiled a little. “What’s the good of being married to a cop if you can’t—”
I finished his sentence and tried to smile back at him. “—bother people on Sundays?”
But Jack Chart, the proprietor of Chart’s Flowers, said the order— which he recalled because of the odd message and the even odder way in which it was delivered—came under the door of his shop in an envelope with cash in it and instructions to spend the twenty-five dollars on an arrangement of pink rosebuds, baby’s breath, and white carnations, and to send it to the service for Margaret Cain at Harbor Lights Funeral Home.
“I don’t know who ordered it, Lieutenant,” he told Geof. “Please tell your wife that I felt awful that it was such a chintzy arrangement, but you can’t buy many roses for that kind of money. I hope she wasn’t offended?”
There wasn’t any way Geof could answer that que
stion, so he said, “I’m sure it was very nice, Mr. Chart, and Jenny is grateful. Thanks for your help. If you get any other orders like that, let me know immediately, okay?”
“Oh, I hope I don’t!” the florist said. “I just hate for people to think we do cheap things. I mean, well, you know what I mean?”
Geof knew what he meant.
I completed the rest of the thank-you notes, and he went back to sawing stakes for tomatoes. But the day was ruined. And so was my sleep that night.
4
A LIGHT SNOW FELL THAT NIGHT, BUT IT HAD ALREADY MELTED by the time we woke up, leaving Monday morning looking wet and shiny, as if the world had cried all night. I had not, although I hadn’t slept much. Still, by that morning, which was the fifth day after my mother’s death, I thought I was “fine.”
Geof asked me over coffee, “How are you?”
“Fine,” I said.
I returned to work at the Port Frederick Civic Foundation.
My assistant, Faye Basil, greeted me with, “Jenny, how are you?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
I walked into my office, sat down at my desk, and stared at the papers on it. A few of them, I knew, were decidedly unfriendly. They were letters from residents of Port Frederick who objected to some of the projects we were funding. Planned Parenthood, for instance. An AIDS hospice. A wonderful little gallery of modern art. We were getting more daring in our funding lately—and consequently more controversial— because I was finally growing into the strength of my convictions about the functions of foundations. Or, at least, of any foundation that I ran. And that was—to my mind—to help those with the most acute needs or those who had the hardest time getting funds from conventional sources. In other words, the sickest, the neediest, the experimentors and the inventors, the geniuses who looked at first like fools, that’s who I wanted to help, the people who took risks.
I.O.U Page 4