They eat, and in no time the office smells like a classroom, boiled egg, sweating salami. The store is quiet. “Must be the good weather,” Peter remarks, cautiously.
“We need to do a spring cleaning,” Maloney says, food smacking in his mouth, “is that something you’d all be interested in?”
No reaction.
“We’ll pay you, of course.”
“You didn’t last year,” Annie says firmly.
“But we will this year.”
“No thanks, I’d rather not,” Peter says quietly.
“Me neither.” Annie looks at Maloney, defiant, but Maloney’s focused on holding his sandwich, which threatens to fall apart. “Why the hell didn’t you ask them to put a toothpick in it, Peter? Look at this shit.” He leans forward to snatch up a piece of greasy bread from the floor.
Peter slurps his cola. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down with each gulp. “Well, I’m going back to work,” Annie says, tossing her crumpled sandwich paper in the trash on the way out. Maloney belches and says: “We’re off in ten minutes. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Thomas opens the window and sucks a pleasant breath of fresh, mild air into his lungs. “Did you order a new coffee automat?” he asks Maloney.
“Haven’t ordered shit. Who would I call? I don’t give a flying fuck about ordering so much as a glow-in-the-dark turd from that company, let me tell you.”
“A glow-in-the-dark turd?”
Maloney begins to whistle. “What do you think we’ll sing today? Jenny’s got some tearjerkers in store for us, no doubt. Will there be a wake?”
“I hope not,” Thomas replies, suddenly nervous. He expressly told her that he wouldn’t spend a dime on this service. The city’s covering it. They’ve refused to pay for the funeral director and the burial plot—Jenny because she can’t, and he because it makes him happy. The old man’s ashes will be heaped in the cheapest wooden urn they could find, and then dumped in an unmarked grave. But a wake? He hadn’t considered that. He figured it was completely out of the question, that in the very least they would agree on that. And since Jenny doesn’t have any money, he convinces himself that the probability of her arranging anything behind his back is minimal.
They take a cab, and Maloney’s remarkably silent the whole way, as if he’s told himself that the situation calls for it. Thomas glances at him, but he’s pretending to be deep in concentration, his attention firmly and piously focused out the window. The city floats, still bathed in light, a kind of sunshine-rain, and they pass all the old haunts: Here he once sat with Patricia on his lap (the green bench under the linden trees); here he and Jenny picked up their father at a bar one morning; here the department store and his faint recollections of standing with their mother on the escalator, on the way up to buy a new dress for Jenny; here their grandfather’s nursing home, which their old man referred to as the End Station (“Are you going out to the End Station to visit the old psychopath?”); and here the soccer fields, the big library, the music venues, the garages where one of their father’s friends sold “used cars,” the speakeasy in the back room, outside of which Thomas and Jenny hopped in puddles one interminable autumn day. Then the hospital emerges with its attractive, old central building and the newer additions of gray concrete. The network of trails and moss-covered lawns. Now they’re close. The car slows on the smaller streets, with their row houses and simple one-story villas, and there’s the cemetery with its headstones and crosses, with its evergreens and weeping willows and copper beech, half-rotten bouquets of flowers, the recently dug graves and their fresh wreaths. The car swings through a gate and follows the gravel road to the chapel. The crematorium is in the far back of the cemetery, as though hidden from the road. Thomas catches a glimpse of it behind some small, whitewashed office buildings, and he can’t help but look for smoke furling over the bricks. But there’s no smoke. Not yet, he thinks. The driver stops the car. One of the chapel’s wing doors has been flung open, leading into the darkness. Jenny stands on the stairs wearing a dark-blue jacket. And a hat. “She’s wearing a hat!” Maloney says, stifling a laugh. “Wow . . .”
“What did you expect?” Thomas mumbles, climbing out of the car. Jenny’s cheeks are already wet with tears, she’s wearing heels that are much-too tall, and black gloves. Her mouth glistens on her powdered face, orange-red and vulgar. Alice and Ernesto lean against the wall in the sunlight, smoking. Sharp, sharp sunlight now, very defined shadows. Alice raises her hand in a limp wave then lets it drop just as limply. A group of men stand a short distance away. At once Thomas recognizes one of them, Frank, their father’s buddy of many years. He’s grown thin and sallow. The obese man in sunglasses must be the one they always called Fatso. He’s lost most of his hair, and has combed a few black wisps over his bald dome. Another, much younger man is wearing a baseball cap pulled down over his forehead, which nearly hides his face. He’s smoking intensely, continuously lifting the hand holding the cigarette up to his mouth and then down again. He’s tall and slender, muscular. Frank gives Fatso a playful shove, and they grin. A car rolls up in front of the chapel, and out steps Aunt Kristin and Helena followed by the twins, who must be twelve or thirteen years old by now. Two shy girls in matching windbreakers. It occurs to him how much Kristin resembles their mother. There’s something elegant and practiced in her movements, her smooth full-bodied hair, now silver-gray, like a helmet atop her heart-shaped face. Jenny has already hugged Maloney and squeezed Thomas’s wrist. He pulls himself free and goes to Kristin. She wraps her arms around him and holds him tight. “Thomas,” she says into his jacket. “How are you?”
“Fine,” he says. “And you? The twins have gotten so big.”
She looks at him. “You never visit us. But we’ll have to change that. I just told Helena that now we’ll have to invite you to the house. We’ve reconfigured the barn, and there’s room for all of you to spend the night. Or rather: I’ve reconfigured. Helena’s not much for manual labor, as you know. Of course she’s also been busy recently, you know, she got an order for a huge tapestry. We’ve put the big loom out in the barn . . .” She lets go of him: “My God! Is that Alice over there? She’s all grown up!” Then he says hello to Helena, who’s packed in something resembling a poncho, out of which she pokes her narrow, friendly face, a warm smile; she kisses his cheek. The twins shake his hand politely and regard him with their identical gray-green eyes. The expression in their eyes is different, but he can’t tell which is which.
“Congratulations on your tapestry. Kristin just told me how busy you’ve been.” Helena lights up. “Thank you so much. Yes, it’s an overwhelmingly massive project, but I believe I’ve finally figured out what to do. It’s an alter tapestry.”
“Christ on the cross?”
Helena smiles. “No, the Holy Virgin at the well. And I’m actually happy about that.”
Suddenly Patricia’s at his side. “Are you okay?” she whispers, clutching his jacket. She says hello to Helena. The twins have sat down on the lowest step. Thomas wants to say something to Patricia, but a tall man with sharp features and a jacket a little too outsized for him approaches them with long strides. He introduces himself and offers his hand. “My condolences,” he says. “You must be the son? I don’t want to intrude, but my colleagues thought it’d be a good idea if I came. It was a bit of a shock to find him like that. I’d spoken with him only three hours earlier. I’ve known Jacques for many years—he visited us many times in his later years, after all. He looked a little tired that day, but he was in good spirits.”
Thomas thanks him for coming.
“I thought you’d want to know his last words?”
Thomas nods.
“His last words were literally . . .” The prison guard sucks air through his nose. “He said: ‘I think I’m too damn tired to exercise today.’ And then he smiled at me. That’s what happened. I think I’m too damn tired to exercise today. Didn’t seem strange at all. Otherwise I’d have called the doctor, you kno
w. I hope you understand.” The man suddenly looks tense. A moment later, he relaxes. Thomas thanks him, says that he appreciates him coming. “Thanks for taking the time.” “No problem,” says the guard. “He actually got off pretty easy. It didn’t look good for him this time. He was facing quite a sentence. The trial was set to begin in a few weeks.”
“What was he charged with?” Thomas asks.
“Unfortunately I can’t discuss that.”
“How long do you think he’d have been in prison?”
“A long time.” The officer nods. “Many years.” The two men stand there. The officer rocks up and down on his toes. “Well, I think I’ll go in and find a seat,” he says, heading toward the chapel.
Patricia’s standing beside Maloney and Kristin, who now has her arm around Jenny. Alice is talking to Helena. Thomas pulls a smoke out of his jacket pocket and paws around for his matches. But before he can locate them, Frank is right beside him, with his wrinkled, sun-ravaged face, putting a lighter to his cigarette. An odor of dust and cologne clings to him. “You’ve certainly grown since I last saw you,” he says, smiling brashly. “We’ll be sure to send your father off good and proper. I hear he died in his cell?” Thomas nods. “If you’re gonna die, I guess it’s not the worst way to go: Bang, you’re gone. Am I right?” Thomas nods again. “But I’ll miss him. We’ve been friends for thirty-three years. You know that, right?”
Thomas nods a third time. “Who’s the one with the baseball hat?” he asks, indicating the group. “You mean The Kid?” Frank points, and the man looks up. Thomas catches a glimpse of his eyes and his broad nose. He must be in his early twenties. A lock of curly, reddish-brown hair sticks out from under the hat. “It’s Luc, Fatso’s nephew. Your father called him Luke. He worked with us before Jacques got busted. Did errands and that sort of thing. He’s known your father since he was a little boy. And me of course. Good kid. He’s a good kid. But I won’t bother you anymore on a day like this. We can chat later. I’m offering everyone a round of drinks at my pub afterward. Jenny thought that would be the best thing. And it’s the least I can do for my old friend.” Thomas looks at him in disbelief. Frank takes a deep drag on his cigarette. “I’ve got a little place now, for my old age, you see. Your father just managed to approve of it before his arrest. The boss said, ‘Okay, it’s a good joint.’ That was important for me, you know. Your father did enjoy having a drink now and then.”
“You’re right about that,” Thomas mumbles. Frank laughs huskily and pats him on the shoulder. “You’ve always had a sense of humor, just like your old man. That’s the way it should be!” His laughter morphs into a cough. He steps back. Thomas tosses his cigarette onto the ground. Jenny and the others have gone inside. Patricia motions to him: It’s time. When he begins to walk, he hears Frank and the others following him. And now he hears an organ playing. Who the hell ordered organ music?
The chapel isn’t exceptionally large, but the enormous windows fill the space with light. There’s the casket. There’s Ernesto playing the electric organ. Some kind of jazz, presumably. He’s swaying rhythmically back and forth while tossing his head back, fully absorbed. Apparently, Jenny has arranged everything on her own. The funeral director, a tall, long-limbed woman in a tight skirt and cream-colored shirt, steps forward and offers a dry, warm hand. Then she returns to her position at the door. White walls, hard benches. No one says anything. Thomas slides in beside Patricia. Jenny’s sitting in the first row, next to Alice. He hears Frank and his entourage clattering into their pew somewhere behind him. With people in scattered seats, the chapel seems empty and all-too enormous and hollow. Ernesto finally concludes his musical score, after a long and truly embarrassing improvisation that he apparently can’t get enough of. That’s followed by silence, during which every little sound in the room is amplified: shoes scrape the floor, benches creak, a cough is suppressed, a jacket is rustled. Jenny gets uncertainly to her feet, a piece of paper in her hand. Thomas grows ice cold. If he doesn’t clench his teeth, they chatter. Jenny steps up onto the platform the casket rests on and turns toward the attendees. She lays her hand on the casket and quickly removes it, as if she’s been scalded. Thomas notices the casket is adorned with scant decorations: a handful of roses, daisies, and some wreaths. He’s freezing, shivering. Patricia looks at him out the corner of her eye and squeezes his hand. Jenny clears her throat and appears unhinged.
“First of all, I’d like to thank Alice’s friend Ernesto for the beautiful music. Jacques loved jazz.” Like hell he did, Thomas thinks. “And I’d like to thank you all for coming out today to say farewell to him.” Thomas looks down at his knees. They’re quivering. And so are Jenny’s. She wobbles in her high heels. She braces herself against the casket for support. As if at any moment her fleshy body could collapse across it. “It’s not easy saying goodbye, but we need to. Dad was . . . Dad was one of a kind. He wasn’t always easy to have as a father, but . . . he was what we had. He . . .” Jenny is overcome by a fit of powerful, wet sobbing, and tries desperately to control it. She clears her throat. “He was also—a good and loving—father . . . No, I’m sorry . . .” She wipes the tears from her eyes and stares at her paper. She looks up, out over the audience, squints. Time seems to stand completely still. Will she throw herself to the floor? Will she scream? But then a small smile spreads across her face; she locks eyes with Thomas. And then in a suddenly firm voice, she says: “There was no one else besides him, for us. Now he’s found peace, and I believe we should sing a song before we leave him. Or before he leaves us. But I guess he’s already done that, so . . .” Jenny fumbles for her scarf, tugs on it. “Oh, yeah, I’d also like to let you know that Frank, Jacques’s friend of many years, is offering everyone a round of drinks afterward at his place, Café Rose. You can get the address from me after the ceremony.” She nearly stumbles as she walks back to her seat.
The twins sit leaning against Helena. One of the girls yawns. Patricia hands Thomas a sheet of light-blue paper. A cheap photocopy, just the sort of thing he despises. On it are the lyrics to the song they’re supposed to sing. At the very least she could have asked me to do that, Thomas thinks, and has already guessed what kind of song it’ll be even before he inspects the paper. Of course it’s the song about old grudges. Jenny has drawn some unhelpful hearts and stars around the words. And a sun, for crying out loud, in the upper left corner. At the organ, Ernesto’s having trouble finding the melody; he’s playing haltingly and too quickly, and it becomes a rather disjointed performance: Frank and Fatso’s voices boom, while everyone else adds their voices more tentatively, and in the center of it all, Thomas can clearly make out his and Jenny’s own subdued voices; they know the song by heart. Jenny’s voice hasn’t cracked, as he would’ve expected; she sings in tune and in a clear and vibrant voice. When the song’s finished, Jenny places a bouquet of orange flowers on the casket. Lilies, maybe. Tiger lilies. She waves him over. His steps are loud on the tiled floors, and he’s seized with panic: everything seems distorted and loud. He thinks about the huge body that squeezed him that night Jules and Tina visited, the hair in his mouth, the warm, sticky skin that pressed against his own. His chest hurts. He struggles to breathe. He feels a strong urge to flee. All the while there’s this sensation that, when he turns around, he’ll come face to face with something so frightful and awful that it’ll scare him to death. He doesn’t dare turn around. To support himself, he leans against the pews. He stops walking. But Jenny motions for him again, impatiently. When he finally reaches her, he forces himself to turn around, and all that he sees are people quietly gathering their things and shuffling toward the casket. And there the two of them stand, one on either side of the deceased—the silent white casket made of veneer—he with a powerful sense of unease, Jenny like a kind of hostess, seemingly cheerful now. She steps aside to let the prison guard lay a single red rose on the casket. Frank and Fatso fumble with a limp bouquet of carnations that look like something they bought at a gas station. Handshakes
and nods. Frank pats Jenny on the cheek. “Yeah,” he says, “on this road we’ll all travel.” He sighs. He squeezes Jenny’s arm. Alice is already on the way out, followed by Ernesto. They are tiger lilies. And now Thomas notices that the modest decoration, with daisies, is from the city. Apparently it’s part of the package. A white banner made of a thin synthetic material: Rest in peace. All at once Luc is standing beside him. Carefully he lays a large bundle of blue hyacinths on the casket, near where the dead man’s face must be—as if the strong odor should go with him to the grave, right up through his nostrils. The funeral director addresses them discreetly, her cheeks flushed. “Usually we leave the flowers on the floor, but would you prefer them on the casket?”
“There aren’t many anyway,” Jenny says.
“That’s perfectly fine. We’ll just take the cards out.” The hyacinths’ scent is intense, at once nauseating and agreeable. The dress tightens over the funeral director’s hips and derriere when she bends forward to remove the tiny envelopes from the three bouquets. Thomas spins around; it feels as though Luc’s still standing right behind him, but he’s gone. Thomas glances about, but he’s nowhere to be seen. My ref lexes are delayed, he thinks, and again this fear spreading from his gut. Then, suddenly, Kristin’s smiling face is right in front of him. Now she’s up here, and she grabs each of their hands. “You did great, Jenny,” “Thanks.” Jenny whispers like a schoolgirl. Kristin places a small bouquet of twigs with red berries on the casket. “They’re poisonous,” she whispers to Thomas when Jenny turns her back. A wide smile spreads across Thomas’s face, and he feels a sense of relief running through him like a welcome breeze in the midst of something all-too warm and cramped. His belly flutters, his lips quiver, and his fear dissolves, vanishes. He wants to embrace Kristin and laugh. I want to laugh, that’s what I want. I want to howl for a long time. Or blubber in her hair. There’s a thick lump in his throat. Maybe it’s not tears but a scream, he thinks. A powerful roar. Maybe he’ll kick over the casket. I’ll kick over the casket. I’ll break him in two. He feels Kristin’s hands clutching his waist. “Thomas,” she says.” Now he sees that she’s also holding onto Jenny, now he hears Jenny whimpering loudly. “Come,” Kristin says. “Let’s get out of here. You two shouldn’t linger. That’s enough. Blow out the candles.” “The candles?” He hadn’t even noticed the wax candles, almost as tall as a man, on either side of the casket. Kristin counts: “One, two, three. Blow!” He looks at Jenny, she looks at him, she sobs, and in unison they blow out the small flames. Two thin columns of black smoke spiral upward. Kristin goes off to gather jackets. Then she leaves the chapel. Jenny’s cheeks are blackened with mascara. The chapel’s empty now, the air cloudy with tiny specks of dust, visible in the light from the open door. Sweeping light, floating dust. Again this silence in the room, mystical and endless, like outer space, or like a shed on a summer day when you’re a kid, when you sit dozing and sweating under a cardboard box, when you sit under a cardboard box with a parched throat and dry, warm hands, sucking small puffs of breath and letting your eyes roll all the way up under your eyelids without closing your eyes. To be so silent and absent that you’re almost dead. Thomas staggers. Jenny thanks the chapel officer standing at the door in his black suit. Thomas shakes hands with the funeral director. His own feels clammy and sweaty. She hands him an envelope with roses imprinted on it. “The cards that came with the flowers,” she says, smiling. “My condolences.” They go outside, but then Jenny turns and slips back inside. She tugs at the chapel officer’s sleeve as he’s closing the door. “Will he be cremated now? Soon? Are you cremating him now?” she asks breathlessly. “I can’t answer precisely, unfortunately. But yes, it’ll be either today or tomorrow, I would imagine. He doesn’t have to go very far, after all. You can ask the funeral director, if you wish.” He nods in the direction of the funeral director. “The woman over there.” But Jenny responds with uncontainable tears, loud and mournful. The door closes behind them. Thomas takes hold of her; she leans against him and dampens his shirt, a river flowing from her eyes. She hangs on his neck, sobbing.
Rock, Paper, Scissors Page 9