Seriously.
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“How so?”
“It’d be nice to have another golfer in the office.”
“There must be tons of guys who play where you are. Isn’t it some golf mecca?”
I rolled my eyes. “Three courses and counting.” I leaned towards her so I wouldn’t be heard. “They’re mostly a bunch of duffers, to be honest. But you, Christ, you really schooled that flagpole. You taught that flag a lesson.”
I stopped, realizing I might be speaking through one too many glasses of wine.
“That wasn’t my intention but … thanks.”
“Did you play professionally?”
“College.” She paused, considering. “Scholarship.”
I spooned some stuffing onto my plate. She took a generous helping of cranberry sauce.
“And after college? Sorry, I don’t normally ask this many questions.”
“It’s okay. I wasn’t good enough to take it anywhere, so I gave it up.”
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“Lots of people can hit it at the flag on the range. It’s bringing it together on the course that matters. Besides, you should see me putt. I suck at putting.”
“I highly doubt that.”
She shrugged as she ladled gravy over her meat. “You’ll never know, right?”
“How’s that?”
“You live in your Springfield, I live in mine. Never the twain shall meet.”
“But we’re meeting now.”
“One-time thing. I have it on good authority these types of shindigs are going to be cut in the next budget.”
“That’s too bad.”
We’d reached the end of the line. I searched for something else to say.
“What department do you work in?” I asked lamely.
“HR. You?”
“Accounting.”
She raised her eyebrows, two dark slashes in an alabaster face. “The two most hated departments in the place. Anyway …”
“We should be getting back.”
“We should.”
“It was nice meeting you … I never got your name.”
She shook her head. “Nope. Never the twain shall meet, remember?”
“All right, then. It was nice not meeting you, whoever you are.”
“It was nice not meeting you too.”
CHAPTER 7
Six Feet Under
Tuesday morning, and Beth is insisting that I get out of bed, out of the bedroom, out of the house.
“Out of the house?”
“Yes. The great outdoors. Have you forgotten about it?”
“Fuck off.”
“Finally.”
“What?”
“That’s the first emotion I’ve seen you express since I got here. Those pills Dr. Feelgood has you on are too strong. I think some anger is what you need.”
I tuck my knees under my chin. “What I need is for this all to be some sick joke.”
“But that’s not going to happen, so what are you going to do about it?”
“Hiding in here seems about right.”
“I had another plan in mind.”
Turns out Beth’s plan involves shopping for a dress to wear for Jeff’s service, and some secret mission she won’t let me in on. And because she’s my older sister, and I’ve been programmed all my life to follow her instructions, I get up, shower, and come downstairs to face the rest of my family in the bright daylight streaming through my kitchen.
My mother and father are sitting at the breakfast table with Jeff’s parents. Our house seems to have become Grief Command Central, and I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it. Thankfully, the other onlookers or well-wishers or whatever I should be thinking of them as have left, back to their lives, leaving only their Tupperware behind. God knows how many casseroles there are in the freezer.
The one person missing is Seth, who’s gone to school again. He wouldn’t tell me how it went yesterday when he got back, simply grumbling that it had been “fine.” This seemed like a good sign, a pre–Jeff-is-gone kind of behaviour. But his troubled sleep continued, all thrashes and moans, and I held him like a baby, rocking him until he finally quieted.
After rising to hug me and tell me how glad they are I’m going out, my parents start bickering over the sections of the newspaper, as they have all my life. I feel a wave of embarrassment at their lack of tact in front of Jeff’s parents, one of those couples who give the impression they’ve never had an argument. But they act oblivious, hug me, and start on the dishes, Mr. Manning washing, Mrs. Manning drying, their grief etched in their faces, their meticulous movements.
I slump into a chair next to my mother, resting my chin in my hands, and stare out the window at the sunny day. Beth plunks a bowl of cereal in front of me, Seth’s special-occasion Froot Loops. I eat them, my hunger returning after a few bites. Froot Loops are better than I remember.
“Josie called for you again,” my mom says.
“Okay.”
“Are you going to return her call?”
Josie’s one of our closest friends, but I haven’t been calling anyone back.
“Eventually.”
“Jesus, Mother,” Beth says. “What kind of question is that?”
“It’s a normal question. Why do you have to be so harsh all the time?”
Beth mutters something under her breath about her that, thankfully, only I hear. Or maybe my father hears it too. I notice a smile creep onto his lips, which quickly disappears when my mother gives him a quizzical look.
I eat the rest of my cereal, then bypass Jeff’s parents and put the bowl directly into the dishwasher. I always have to (had to, damn it, had to) remind Jeff to do the same, part of our normal married banter, the little rubs of everyday life.
“We’re going shopping,” Beth announces to no one in particular, then leads me out the door. My car’s parked on my side of the driveway, where I park it every day, where I parked it Friday.
Before.
Jeff’s side of the driveway is a blank expanse of cracked asphalt. It was on our list of things to try to fix this summer, if we had the money. His car must still be in the company parking lot. Should I ask Beth to pick it up? Do I even want it picked up, another reminder of his absence? Maybe I should give it to my parents, who’ve lived my whole life with one car, although they’ve never wanted to go to the same place.
I hand my car keys to Beth without speaking and buckle myself into the passenger side. I can feel anxiety creeping through my body, starting near my heart and radiating outwards. The thought of actually being behind the wheel seems inconceivable. How can I ever be responsible for the tons of metal and plastic, the bumper, the hood, the windshield? The instruments of Jeff’s demise?
I shudder and pull on the seat belt so it slaps tight against my shoulder. It’s going to be fine, I think as Beth backs carefully out of the driveway, willing myself to believe it. Just fine.
The mall’s nearly empty. It’s early, and it’s Tuesday, so I shouldn’t be surprised, but somehow I am. On the way here, I imagined being swept up in a sea of people, jostled, slightly claustrophobic, normal. Instead, it simply smells clean, and like there’s more air in it than usual. One more reminder of how different today is. How I shouldn’t be here.
“What do you think our best bet is?” Beth asks.
“Huh?”
“For an outfit, for, Christ, you’re not going to make me say it, are you?”
“I’m sorry. We should go to Stacy’s I guess.”
“Don’t apologize. Please. Speaking before thinking. You know how I am.”
“Sure.”
“So Stacy’s is?”
“This way.”
I angle in the right direction and Beth matches her stride to mine. She reaches down and takes my hand, and despite the numbing drugs, I’m almost in tears. I squeeze her hand and slide mine from hers. It’s something I’ve noticed, these last few
days. Aside from Seth, anyone else’s touch, a kind word even, brings me close to the breaking point.
Beth doesn’t say anything as we pass by the jumble of clothing, knick-knack, and electronics stores. When we get to Stacy’s, we weave through the racks of summer lines and frothy prom dresses. I don’t see a dark outfit anywhere, only a riot of colour.
But Beth’s the older sister for a reason. She directs me to the fitting rooms, and before I have time to strip off my clothes, she’s back with three black dresses slung over her arm. They all look similar, black sheaths devoid of any personality other than widow. If I slap on the strand of pearls I got for my sixteenth birthday and a pillbox hat, maybe someone will mistake me for Jackie O, time-warped to the future.
“I think this one will fit you best,” Beth says, handing me one of the dresses.
She hangs the other two on the hook on the back of the door and pulls her sweater over her head.
“What are you doing?”
“I need a dress too, you know.”
“There’s a whole line of empty rooms.”
“Are you getting modest on me? We used to do this all the time.”
As she reaches down to undo her pants, flashes of similar occasions spring up. The first outfit I was allowed to buy without my mother (a pair of green striped pants I instantly regretted); my first formal wear (a turquoise gown with puffed sleeves); my wedding dress (a strapless A-line dress because Beth said you never regret the strapless A-line).
“Come on, slow coach, off with your clothes.” She pokes me in the stomach as she says the word clothes.
I pull back instinctively. “What the hell?”
“You don’t want to be here all day, do you?”
I definitely don’t, so I finish undressing and slip the stiff fabric over my head. It itches where it meets my collarbone, but that seems fitting somehow. I don’t want to feel comfortable on the day of Jeff’s funeral.
“That looks like it will do,” Beth says. “What about me?”
I look up at Beth. Four years older than me, her short hair is shot through with grey and there are lines on her face I’ve never noticed before. Her dress fits her well enough, but it looks uncomfortable too.
“You look like Hester Prynne,” I say.
“About to face my accusers? That’s exactly the look I was going for.”
Back in the car, Beth turns on the radio, but I quickly snap it off. The low bass notes feel like an assault. I expect Beth to take us home, but as she turns in the opposite direction, I remember that we still have to complete the “secret mission” she won’t let me in on. I’m imagining all kinds of possibilities, but the place we actually end up didn’t even make the list.
“No, Beth. I can’t. I can’t go in there,” I say as we park outside a sprawling house with a conservative sign on the lawn that reads Anderson’s Funeral Home.
Beth pulls on the parking brake. “You have to. It’s going to suck. It might suck worse than anything has ever sucked, but you have to be strong for a bit, okay?”
I gulp for air. My heart feels like it stopped beating a few moments ago, and I don’t know how to get it restarted. I bring my fist to my chest and press it hard to my breastbone.
“What is it?” Beth asks. “You know you can tell me anything.”
“If I go in there, then … all of this, all of this is real.”
“I feel like a complete shit for saying this, okay, but all of this is real. You can’t get any more real than this.”
I clutch my purse in my lap, feeling the bottle of pills beneath the supple leather. The car clock says it’s thirty minutes past when I’m allowed to take another pill. I’ve felt thirty minutes of pain I didn’t need to feel, but I also feel more awake than I have in days. More present. I leave the pills in my purse.
“Okay,” I say to Beth. “Let’s go.”
We walk up the cement walkway to the mortuary’s front door. The new lawn is minty green, cut short and even, not a blade out of place. There are bunches of tulips poking out of the ground, light pink, almost white, tasteful. I take a deep breath, searching for the scent of spring, but the air is odourless. Antiseptic almost.
Inside, a young woman dressed in a conventional black dress that could be the twin of the one I just bought is sitting behind a spare mahogany desk with her hands folded in her lap. Her light hair is cut blunt to her chin. She seems to be waiting for us.
“Mrs. Manning?”
“Yes.”
She rises. I expect her to offer her hand but instead she tucks them both behind her back like a museum docent. Maybe she understands about the pain her touch might cause.
“I’m Karen Anderson. Would you like to accompany me into the parlour?”
We follow her into a very formal living room plucked from the Victorian Age. The Air from Bach’s Suite no. 3 in D is playing on an iPod resting in a set of speakers on a side table, the one incongruous object in the room. We sit on a pink brocade couch. The fabric feels stiff and slippery. I hold on tight anyway, in case the seas get rough.
Karen sits across from us in a wingback chair and opens a plain black notebook.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you and Mr. Manning ever discuss what kind of arrangements he’d like in this eventuality?”
I feel an overwhelming urge to ask her to speak in modern English, but there’s something oddly soporific in her formal words, the way her tapered fingers hold the fountain pen that’s hovering over the blank lined page.
“We talked about … we never talked about this part.”
“Would you like to go with one of our standard packages, then?”
“What does that … involve?”
She opens a drawer in the table next to her and hands me a thick piece of cardboard. It’s a menu, a funeral menu, with two headings: Religious and Non-Religious. I skip down to the non-religious option: a little Barrett, a little Browning, space for speeches from family and friends if that is “desired.” The music’s all wrong, but I can fix that myself.
I hand it back to her. “The non-religious will be fine.”
“Good. Do you know what day you’d like to hold the service? We have an opening tomorrow.”
“No!” I say way too loudly for this cloistered room.
Beth places her hand on my knee. I take several deep breaths.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “it’s … his brother. His brother isn’t here yet. He has to be here.”
I’m not sure what it is that makes me think of Tim at this moment. I’m not even sure he’s been told. I’ve abrogated that responsibility, like so many others. But, of course, he must’ve been. Jeff’s parents must have called him. And despite everything, I know with total certainty that Tim will cross the distance and come. I just don’t know when.
“His brother lives in Australia. I’m not sure when he’s getting here.”
“He’s arriving on Thursday,” Beth says.
I let that sink in. Tim is arriving on Thursday.
“Would Friday work, then?”
I want to scream No! again, but instead I look at Beth.
She nods and speaks for me. “Friday would be fine.”
“Perfect.” She scratches out a few words with her pen. “Is eleven a good time?
” Beth nods again.
Friday at eleven is three days from now. And then what?
“If you’ll follow me into our display room, you can choose the casket you desire.”
I don’t have to scream this time for Beth to grab my hand and hold it tight. Karen bows her head, waiting patiently for me to collect myself. She must be used to this. Has she become immune to grief? Does she slough it off like I do the petty slights of three- and four-year-olds?
Several minutes pass before I come back to myself. I can hear the soft tinkle of the Bach, feel my fingers mechanically playing the chords against my knee, and Beth’s warm hand covering mine.
“We can
do this another time,” Beth says. “Or I can—”
“No, I should do this. I should be the one.”
I rise unsteadily. We cross the wide hall towards a set of large wooden doors with glass panels, which are covered by opaque gauzy curtains, hiding whatever lies beyond.
Karen opens one of the doors and stands aside. Beth’s clutching my hand so tightly she’s almost cutting off my circulation. I want to make a break for it and run, but that would mean having to come back here.
Karen flicks a switch and we walk into the showroom. I blink under the bright lights. The large, octagonal room has an assortment of caskets arranged a tasteful distance apart, each illuminated by a bright spot.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Karen says. “Let me know when you’ve made your selection.” She closes the door behind her with a discreet click.
I walk towards a casket on the left, and Beth goes right. The large room is full of options. How am I supposed to make a choice? What criteria are even appropriate?
“Can you believe the price of these things?” Beth says after a few minutes, fingering a tag that hangs from the handle of a shiny casket made of rosewood.
“Shh! She’ll hear you.”
“She knows they’re overpriced. Why do you think she left the room?”
“To give us some privacy?”
“You think that if it makes you feel better.”
I shoot her a look. She’s chastened for about thirty seconds, till her eyes land on the name of the casket she’s standing next to. It’s an imposing metal affair that looks like it comes from the future.
“Time Capsule?” Beth says. “Are they freakin’ kidding?”
“You made that up.”
“Come see for yourself.”
I cross the room till I’m close enough to read the card. That’s really its name, and the description seems to imply that the contents will be so well protected that the occupant might be brought back from the dead, should science head in that direction.
“That’s appalling.”
“Especially at that price.”
I look at the tag. The casket costs more than my car by a wide margin. “I can’t afford that.”
“Of course you can’t, honey. But don’t worry, we’ll find something that works.” She looks around the room slowly, sizing up the other possibilities. “That simple one there isn’t too crazy.” She points to a rosewood casket. “And it’s kind of classic. Or you could always go with a pine box. It’s going to moulder in the ground anyway.”
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