Husband and mother and son, all gone in just a few years. A tragedy.
Now they sat together beneath a green tarp. Jane had heard it was going to rain, but beyond the tarp, the skies were clear. The priest was speaking, but Jane wasn’t listening. She could feel the crowd huddled behind her, heard someone to the side clear his throat. She sat with her arm around Mary. Mary wasn’t crying anymore. She was looking down at the grass, at her feet. No, Jane realized, Mary’s eyes were closed. It was all so sad.
Jane thought she should, so she tried to put herself in Mary’s place, tried to imagine what it would feel like if it was her son who had died. She tried to imagine but when she began to feel what it would feel like, when she reached the point in her heart where the feelings began to become real, when she felt her son’s mortal absence—and the wind blew across her back and he was dead—she looked up across the casket at her son standing with his wife, both of their heads bowed, eyes closed, hands folded in front of them. She looked at them for awhile in love, then realizing it was inappropriate, insensitive, even selfish, she closed her eyes and tried to listen to the prayer, but she couldn’t. She wanted to open her eyes. She tried awhile longer to keep them closed, tried to stay there in the dark with the priest, with the memory of Mary’s boy, but she couldn’t. She opened her eyes and the afternoon light filled them; she looked up at her son and watched him, his head bowed, while she rubbed Mary’s shoulder.
Tom hadn’t wanted to go to the site. He would go later, when no one was around and he could be alone. Now he was helping the cleaning woman clean up the reception area. Where do you want this table? he asked her.
You can lean it up against the wall there, she said. She wiped her brow. The heater must be on full blast. It’s hot, isn’t it?
Yeah, Tom said. He was hot and sweating through his shirt, but it seemed he was always sweating these days.
You know you don’t need to do this, the woman said.
It’s all right.
It’s my job. They pay me to do it.
Really, I don’t mind, Tom said. He turned the table on its side and folded the legs underneath.
The woman asked him something he didn’t catch.
I’m sorry?
Did you know the man who died? she said again.
Yes, Tom said.
It’s very sad.
Yes. It is.
So young, she said.
Tom lifted the table and carried it over to where the woman had directed. She was running a sweeper across the carpet. He walked across the room to where the other table was, swept crumbs off of it with his hand. He looked out the window. Down the hill, beyond some houses, was the Sound. Beyond it, the Olympic Mountain range. It was a clear day. A thin strip of cloud lay high up in the atmosphere; above the clouds, even higher, the sky was clear, white. He turned the table onto its side and folded the legs, picked it up and set it next to the other one. The room was empty now.
Anything else? he said.
No, that’s it. I just have to sweep.
Should I take the trash out?
I can do that, she said. The Dumpster’s on the way to my car.
You’re sure there’s nothing else?
I’m sure.
Nothing else I can do?
No. Thank you.
All right, Tom said. He picked his jacket up from the floor and put it on, walked outside. He wondered where Anna was, he hadn’t seen her in hours and hadn’t thought of her until now. She must have gone home with someone else. Who would she have gone home with? He didn’t want to think about that now. Best to rid your mind of everything… Best to think about nothing.
He walked through the grounds, down the steps to the parking lot, towards his car.
There she was. Sleeping. Tom could see her in the front seat, the seat reclined, curled up on her side. He walked down and unlocked his door, got inside.
Anna opened her eyes and stretched. Then she turned and faced forward, brought the seat back to its vertical position, but further forward than she liked. While Tom started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, she fiddled with the handle until she found the right angle. There, she said.
Eric said, I’ll miss him.
I know, Marty said. I know. Hey! Somebody pass one of those pitchers this way! and Pete, down at the end of the table, picked up the pitcher in front of him and filled his glass—he was going to pass it down to Marty, but by the time he had filled his glass that guy Rich had passed the one in front of him—and Pete thought, I shouldn’t have poured my drink first. But who cared? It was a wake after all and they would all be buying many more pitchers.
The money is the best part, Bill was saying and it took Pete a little while to figure out what he was talking about, but then he remembered: Bill was moving upstairs and out of the warehouse where he was working, moving up into the management part of the company. I couldn’t get by on what I was making, Bill said, and I was working there for five years. Angela was about to leave me and find a guy with a salary! Not really, of course, not really, she’s not that bad, I talk a lot about her when I drink, but we love each other, don’t listen to me when I get like this, Jesus, I don’t even remember what I’ve been talking about all this time, I could’ve said something real bad and I wouldn’t know!
Bill had told himself: Don’t talk about Angela tonight. Just don’t even mention her at all. At the cemetery, he’d gotten Eric’s wife to give Angela a ride home; he’d said to Angela, I won’t be late. Just going out with the guys, and Angela had said,
I want you home by eight o’clock. Before the baby goes to bed.
That’s pretty early. These guys like to stay out.
Nine o’clock, she said, then she had taken the baby out of his arms and walked away, and he’d been disappointed.
They all took separate cars to the Trolley and Bill had gone straight to the bathroom, combed his hair back in the mirror, straightened his tie, and he thought, You’re gonna get drunk tonight. Don’t talk about her. You always bitch and moan about her when you drink. Don’t even mention her. You’ll just look like a fool and nobody will like her.
I really love her, Bill said to Pete. She’s the best girl in the world.
You’re a lucky man, Pete said.
The best girl in the whole world, Bill said, I mean that, and Pete said,
Yeah.
Rich didn’t know why he’d come. He should have gone off somewhere by himself. He’d leave soon. He’d put on his coat and take off. He didn’t know these guys, but he had introduced himself to Jim’s mother after the service and she had introduced him to this guy Eric and Eric had invited him along and he didn’t have anything else to do or anywhere else to go, so he came along. He was tired and worn out. People died all the time. That wasn’t a big deal. But Jim was the last guy he would have imagined killing himself. What the hell had been wrong with him? Rich regretted not keeping in touch with Jim. Hell, he almost didn’t come to the funeral. He didn’t know if it was worth the drive up from Arizona. He didn’t know if the type of relationship he’d had with Jim warranted driving all the way up. Had they even been what you’d call friends? They drank together for a time a few years ago. They worked together for the City, partied together, but it was a little strange to drive up to the top of the country for the funeral of a guy you barely knew. Being here at this bar with these guys, strangers, all talking about shit he knew nothing about: people they all knew and had known, places they’d been together—it was occurring to Rich that he hadn’t known Jim at all. He hadn’t even known that Jim had once been a boxer, a good boxer, a boxer that people had expected might someday go pro. He hadn’t known until he’d read the program at the funeral, saw the pictures on the table in the foyer. There were pictures of Jim as a kid, high school graduation pictures, pictures of him with friends, a picture of him holding a baby, the baby dressed in a miniature basketball jersey, and a girl with red hair next to him, smiling. Rich had wondered if this was the girl he had talked about,
the girl he was looking for. Then he’d seen the picture of Jim in his boxing stance:
A tall, wiry dark-haired Irish kid with black shorts and boxing shoes laced high; younger than the Jim he’d known; a pair of red gloves on and a stance that, when you stood in front of the picture, looked like he was going to jump out and pounce on you.
Rich could see the power in him through that stance, and it was something he had noticed before, that Jim, who was very quiet, who always seemed laid-back, who moved slowly and methodically, had, in his reserves, a tremendous physical power. He could tell by the way Jim unscrewed a bottle of beer, the way he shot pool. It was obvious Jim knew how to use his body, knew how to harness his energy.
What the fuck was he talking about, harness his energy? What the fuck did that even mean? What was he doing up here?
Rich downed the last of his glass, thought for a second about just leaving, saying goodbye to these four guys who didn’t seem to even remember he was there, and just taking off, but he didn’t want to get up yet, he wanted to stay and drink some more, so he waved to the bar girl.
She came over. What do you need? she said.
Another pitcher of whatever this is we’re drinking.
All right, she said. She smiled, reached over him and took the empty—her hair brushed up against Rich’s face, she smelled good—it had been three days since he’d left Tucson and Daisy was waiting for him at home. The waitress walked back towards the bar, short black skirt, tight blouse. He wanted to get laid. The way he felt, all he wanted to do was screw. He’d never been this high up in America before and probably never would be again. Federal Way, Washington. He could probably get away with anything, it occurred to him. Anything in the world. You’re never gonna be up here again, Rich. You can do anything, sleep with anyone, be on the freeway in five minutes, headed back home.
He could have been a fucking good boxer for one thing, Eric said.
Yeah, Marty said. I saw him fight. He could be a monster in the ring, but he was always good to his friends.
Yeah.
Marty said, He could be a monster if he wanted to but you knew nothing was going to happen to you. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to his friends. He loved his friends. He loved his friends more than anything.
Let me ask you something, Eric said. He lowered his head and Marty drew closer. Did he ever say anything to you? Did he ever say anything? Was he depressed? Was he fucked-up? Was he using again? Was there something I didn’t know? and Eric really wanted to know, he needed to know because it had been eating him up the past four days.
When he heard about it, at first he hadn’t believed—he’d gotten the call from Jim’s brother, and it had been a short call and Eric hadn’t believed it. A short call and Eric hung up, shaking his head—What the hell was that all about? What’s going on? Jamie! he’d shouted. Jamie!
What? his wife had shouted back. I’m watching TV!
He walked into the living room, light-headed. I just got this call from Tom. He said Jimmy shot himself.
What are you talking about? she said. No, he didn’t. I saw him two days ago.
Oh God fuck wait, Eric said. Wait, wait. What the fuck? he said, and then he went downstairs into the laundry room and locked the door, Jamie calling after him:
I’m calling their mom! Tell her her asshole kids should not be making prank calls like this! It’s fucking immature!
and Eric sat down on the toilet and was going to cry, but he didn’t cry because he was too confused. What the hell is this? Wait. What the hell is this, man? Do you know? Who he was talking to, he had no idea; his head hurt, his brain, he felt, was trying to break out of his skull and float upstairs through the ceiling, where he could hear Jamie yelling:
I’m calling her! She needs to tell those brats that some things aren’t funny!
but Eric knew it was true, he knew it was true that Jimmy was dead, knew it was true because—and this didn’t make sense at all, did it?—because he couldn’t feel Jimmy on the earth anymore.
What?
I said he didn’t kill himself, Marty said. It wasn’t suicide. I know it. Call it a hunch or whatever, but I know what happened and it makes sense if you knew Jim. He liked to gamble, right? You know that. You remember.
Eric said, Yeah, I remember.
Well, that’s the thing, Marty said. It wasn’t suicide, man. My theory is he was playing Russian roulette and he lost.
Russian roulette?
Yeah, Marty said, and you know what that means.
What?
That means somebody was with him when he died. Somebody was there. Somebody saw him blow his brains out, then that somebody picked up the fucking money and walked out the door. Maybe even somebody who was at the funeral. Hey, Marty whispered, what about this guy?
Eric looked at Rich, who was turned around in his seat, talking to the waitress. She was crouching down next to him, smiling; she smoothed her hair back.
What do people do around here for fun? Rich said.
I don’t know, she said. Not much. I guess you’re doing it.
I like your bracelet.
Thanks.
Your boyfriend give you that bracelet?
I don’t have a boyfriend.
That’s too bad.
What are you guys all dressed up for?
Funeral, Rich said.
Oh, the waitress said. She looked into Rich’s eyes. Who was it?
A friend of ours.
He was young?
Twenty-six.
That’s awful. She put her hand on Rich’s leg. I’m sorry. You were close?
Yes.
I had a friend who died, she said. Car accident. That was years ago. I’m still not over it.
I guess some things you never get over.
Yeah.
Eric was explaining to Marty that he seriously doubted it was Russian roulette—You’re drunk—and if it had been Russian roulette, this guy Rich didn’t have anything to do with it. Eric told Marty how Rich had known Jim when Jim was down in Arizona, how Tom had called him, and he’d driven up.
Well, anyway, Marty said. He downed his beer and poured himself another one. Maybe he owed somebody money and they came to collect, he said. Some big-shot gambler or something. He shook his head, staring down at the table. Shit, I don’t know…
Eric leaned back in his chair. He looked up at the ceiling. It was dark in the bar, but there were distinct water stains on the ceiling above him, the edges curving and curling in strange patterns. Well, it was probably water. What else could it be? In places the tiles were rotted through and falling apart, drooping down above the people in the bar. There was one right above Bill. It was going to fall. It was strange that in all the nights in all the years Eric had been here, he’d never noticed them. He would have hated to see the place in the light. He said: You ever known Jim to be depressed?
No, Marty said.
You ever know Jim to want to kill himself?
No.
I just don’t know why he did it, Eric said.
Fuck if I know, the asshole, Marty said. He downed his glass again and poured another. Lost his fucking mind, he said. That girl of his taking off might of had something to do with it. What was her name?
Julie, Eric said.
Yeah. Julie. I wonder what happened to her.
Bill was drinking faster, watching this guy he didn’t know put the moves on the bar girl. He thought: Angela, someday, I’m gonna snap. You’re gonna call me another name, you’re gonna yell and shriek about how I’m worthless, about how no matter what I do, I’m stupid, I’m stupid and an idiot, and I’m no good and I’m poor and stupid, and I don’t know anything, and people see me and they know I’m dumb, I’m stupid, I’m not gonna do anything with my life—you’re gonna say that one too many times, that WORD, that fucking word I hate. STUPID. Just one more time. Say it. I dare you. Say it one more time. STUPID. Say it one more fucking time. I STUPID dare you. Just one more time. One more STUPID time.
What? Bill said.
Am I boring you? Pete said.
Not really, Bill said.
Well, let me know if I’m boring you.
Bill said, I gotta take a piss. He stood up, still staring at the waitress—he was drunk—he never drank this much anymore, had to put his hands on the table to keep from tipping over—Jesus, she had her hand on the guy’s leg—Bill walked over to her, looked down, his groin by her face, staggering, right in her fucking face. He said, Where’s the bathroom? and she took her hand off the guy’s leg, and stood up quickly.
Back there, she said, pointing. Through that door. Haven’t you been here before? she said.
Nope, Bill said. I’ve never been here before. Never. He turned and under his breath he said, Stupid bitch.
Excuse me? What was that? she said.
But Bill was already walking towards the bathroom.
Did you hear what he just said to me! she said.
Hey, I don’t even know him, Rich said.
Pete said, What did he say?
He called me a stupid bitch!
Bill said that?
Bill said what? Eric said.
He called the waitress a stupid bitch.
Bill didn’t say that, Marty said.
The hell he didn’t! the waitress said.
Bill wouldn’t say something like that. I know Bill and Bill wouldn’t say something like that. You must have misunderstood.
Look asshole, I heard exactly what he said!
Now who’s calling names?
Another pitcher, please, Eric said.
The waitress stormed away, and Pete and Marty and Eric laughed, but Rich just stared at them, couldn’t say anything because he didn’t know them, but if one of his buddies back home would have messed up something like that—and he was doing good with her, he could have gotten somewhere with her, was about to ask her what time she got off, tell her he didn’t have a place to stay for the night, maybe she had an idea?—if his buddies back home would have messed it up for him like that he would have beaten the shit out of them, he’d have taken them outside and boxed their fucking heads in, no matter what, no matter what day it was!
Well Page 17