Funeral with a View

by Schiariti, Matt

  “When she first told me she was late.”

  “And since all of this?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Exactly my point. She left your apartment, and you haven’t contacted her since. Right when she needs to hear from you the most.”

  “It’s not fair to her, though. I can’t call her if I’m not totally certain.”

  “There’s no doubt you need to come to a decision, but you should reach out, let her know she’s in your thoughts. Don’t abandon her. Remember, Richard. It may not be William’s child.”

  I chuckled. “Yeah, I gotcha, Mom.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re the best, that’s all.”

  “That fact was never in question.” She meant it. “Richard, I can’t tell you what to do. Take this advice for what it’s worth. Think about what Catherine means to you, but don’t fall off the map. That would be inexcusable. Hopefully everything will work itself out. I have a good feeling about this girl. In the meantime, be a little patient and a lot strong.”

  “I’ll do my best. Thanks, Mom.”

  “You’re welcome. Oh, and Richard?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stop chewing your fingernails, dear.”

  I pulled my index finger out of my mouth, the nail chewed to a ragged nub.

  How the hell?

  As if reading my mind she said, “I always know, sweetie. Can’t fool me, remember?”

  “Not when I was a kid, not now.”

  “Bye, Baby Boy. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Mom.”

  My next call was to Catherine, but she never answered.

  CHAPTER 12

  July turned into August.

  Two things persisted: the humidity and my shitty mood.

  I hadn’t talked to Bill or Catherine in three weeks.

  It was the longest Cat and I had gone without contact since we started dating. Did she hate me? Would she forgive me? The jury was still out on both fronts.

  Total communication blackout wasn’t easy. If I had a dime for every time I typed out an email only to delete it before hitting send, or for each instance I’d dialed her number and hung up before the first ring, I’d have a lot of dimes. A shitload in fact, which, according to Urban Dictionary is defined as “more than an assload but still less than a fuckton.”

  That’s a lot of dimes.

  What had I been doing with myself in order to maintain a semblance of sanity? I stayed in my fortress of solitude: my apartment. Other than trips to the grocery store and work, I removed myself from the world.

  Now would be a good time to get into my profession I suppose.

  I graduated from Ryder University with a degree in graphic design. As a kid I’d spent most of my time doodling in notebooks. Mom had nearly tripped over me dozens of times as I lie on the floor working at my own comic book creations. Art classes throughout my schooling came easy to me. It was something I loved to do, and I didn’t take for granted the fact that I was able to turn my love of art into a full time job.

  Not long after having graduated from Ryder, I’d landed a job at Colbert & Colbert Advertising Agency in Princeton. No relation to the political satirist, by the way. I checked. What had started out as a job I took on a lark ended up being a profitable career, one that I didn’t mind taking home with me when I needed to.

  During that dark three weeks in which Cat and I didn’t speak I’d be lying if I said I’d gotten a lot of work done. I stared at my monitor most days, and bringing files home didn’t remedy my lack of ideas. Loud music, something that had always gotten my creative juices flowing only angered the neighbors. Who knew that blasting angry, guitar-driven rock was frowned upon? The abundance of decibels spewing from my stereo had caused more than one run-in with other occupants of my building.

  Late one evening in early August, there came a pounding from my door in between Alice in Chains songs.

  Assuming it was Mr. Jameson from next door—old, crotchety, but not too nasty so long as you kept the noise down—I sighed and paused the CD. I was more upset that I’d have to deal with the codger again than annoyed at the interruption in lack of workflow. Images for an upscale lingerie boutique I was supposed to be running preliminary ideas on sat on the screen, not a single pixel touched.

  “Coming.”

  I dragged myself out of the computer chair and shuffled my way to the door.

  More knocking.

  “I’m coming!”

  My rehearsed apology died before it had a chance to leave my lips.

  “Hey.”

  Catherine stood in the twilight of the hallway. She seemed tentative. Not like her at all. That made me nervous.

  “Can I come in?”

  Of course you can come in!

  “Yeah, um. Sure. Of course. I thought you were my neighbor for a second and I ... never mind.” The speech impediment came from out of nowhere. Dammit. Rather than gnash on one of my tortured fingernails, I ushered her in with an awkward wave. “Come on in. Please.”

  Catherine brushed past me, the smell of her fruity shampoo following in her wake, and stood in the living room. I closed the door quietly behind me.

  “I hope this isn’t a bad time?” she said.

  It’s never a bad time for you!

  “Bad time? No. Not a bad time. I was just listening to a little music, trying to get some work done.”

  She smiled, small but there. “So I heard. I thought my knuckles would bleed from trying to knock over it.”

  “Sorry about that. Do you want something to drink?” Do you want something to drink? What kind of dumbass question is that?

  “Sure. Water would be great,” she replied, voice soft. “Thanks.”

  So goddamn awkward. Her tone betrayed nothing. She could have showed up to call things off completely, to dump my ass in person, nice and official-like. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, thinking over what my mother had said.

  I have a good feeling about this girl. Be a little patient and a lot strong.

  When I returned, she’d situated herself on my couch, staring at the trippy screensaver on my monitor. My hand, accentuated by fingernails shredded into pulpy stubs, trembled as I handed her the water.

  “Thanks, Ricky.”

  I nodded. She’d called me Ricky. Good sign, right?

  “Surprised?”

  Understatement of the year. “Yeah, you could say that.” I stood a few feet away, not wanting to crowd her.

  She unscrewed the cap, raised the bottle to her mouth, and, as if thinking better of it, set it on the coffee table. “I got your text.”

  “You did? I wasn’t sure.”

  I’d been wondering about that. The ‘total communication blackout’ wasn’t so total. After my initial phone call went ignored, I spent days replaying the conversation with my mother in my head—over and over again, every day, every waking moment—until I was completely sure about what I wanted. No matter what happened with the baby, I’d be there for Catherine as long as she still had room for me in her life.

  As proof, Cat held up her cell phone, the text I’d sent two weeks earlier filling up the screen: LOVE U. HERE 4 U NO MATTER WHAT.

  “Look, Cat—”

  She held up a hand. “Let me just get this out.”

  “Okay.”

  “When I asked if you were still behind me, when you hesitated … It made me feel like shit, betrayed. Maybe I overreacted. I know it was bad to dump it on you out of the blue like that.” Her lower lip trembled. “But I’m so goddamn scared.”

  I moved a half step closer. She played with a silver charm bracelet on her right wrist. I’d bought it for her at a mom and pop jewelry shop down the Jersey Shore when we’d first started dating. Two of the charms stood out from the rest: a capital C and R sandwiched a charm brandishing an ampersand.

  C & R.

  Catherine and Ricky.

  She spun the charms around the bracelet with her slim fingers, eyes focused on the silvery sur
face.

  “Do you know how many times I’ve looked at these charms in the past couple weeks, Ricky?” Probably a shitload. “I can’t help myself. But no matter how much I cried, no matter how angry I was, I couldn’t stand to take them off. Believe me, I thought about it. Ripping the whole thing off and tossing it in the garbage crossed my mind a few times. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

  And?

  “I’ve done a lot of thinking,” she added.

  “Are you breaking up with me?” I’d turned my back on her and I couldn’t see her face, but I could hear the steady clink clink as she played with the charms.

  “No.” She sniffed “That’s not what I want. I never wanted that, even when I was crying and hurting the most.”

  Retrieving a box of tissues from the kitchen, I handed them over as I sat down next to her.

  “Thanks.” She wiped at her eyes. “I’m keeping the baby.”

  “I know.”

  She looked at me, the unasked question burning in her hazel eyes.

  “I’ve been going crazy, out of my mind nuts these past couple weeks,” I said. “Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. About the only things I’ve been able to do are go to work like a drone and piss off my neighbors. Mr. Jameson in particular.” That made her chuckle. “I’m sorry, Cat. For letting you down, for hiding away when I should have been there. But being without you made me realize one thing. I want to be with you, no matter what, baby, no baby, mine or not. When I didn’t hear back from you, I thought I’d lost—”

  She placed a finger on my lips.

  “Shhh. I know. After my tantrum, I thought you’d want to wash your hands of me. I’m sorry I went ballistic on you, Ricky. Scared or not, I should have told you sooner. I should have handled it better.” Her eyes locked onto mine. “I didn’t mean to make you nuts.”

  I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close.

  “Will you stay? Please tell me you’ll stay. I don’t want to let you out of my sight.”

  “Yes. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

  “Are we good? Will we be okay?”

  “Okay? Pfft. We’re better than okay, Ricky. We’ll be off the charts okay.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Really really? You believe that?”

  Catherine tilted up her head. Her lips met mine.

  “Really really. I refuse to believe anything else.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The funeral home is nearing capacity.

  Steadfast Glen walks in with a cup of water and hands it to my mother.

  If you’d have asked me on that hot July Fourth if I’d thought my mother would still be with the odd looking guy, I’d have said no. I don’t mind having gotten that one wrong. He’s put on a few pounds, and what little hair he has left is turning snow-white, but he’s still the same guy who’d gotten sucked up in my mother’s wake. God bless him.

  Bill hasn’t arrived yet. It’s pushing twenty past the hour; way beyond the fashionably late period, if there is such a thing for these occasions. Celeste is still outside with her cousins under the watchful eye of Aunt Jude.

  In walks my wife’s OB/GYN and old family friend, Dr. Ann Conera. Catherine’s been going to her since long before I came into the picture, and during the early years of our marriage I would get to know her better than I’d have imagined.

  Dr. Ann (I learned early on never to call her ‘Dr. Conera’) scans the room. The petite, energetic woman, bulky frame conservatively tucked away under a well-fitting black dress, sees Catherine and makes a bee line toward her. She’s put on a few pounds as well; always did have a soft spot for the sweets.

  I hover in, moving closer to Catherine. It’s my funeral. If I can’t eavesdrop, who can?

  Mom shudders. Glen notices.

  “What’s wrong, Beth?”

  “I’m not sure. Did it just get cold in here all of a sudden?”

  Glen looks thoughtful. “Maybe a little. Do you want me ask the director to turn the thermostat up a bit? What about you, Cat? Cold?”

  Catherine rubs her arms.

  Is it because of my proximity? This is the closest I’ve gotten to anybody. It could be a coincidence, but I’m not sure. I back off a bit. Last thing I want is to make anybody uncomfortable.

  “For a second,” Catherine says. “But the chill’s gone now. Must have been a draft.” At that moment, Dr. Ann enters their circle. “Hi, Dr. Ann.” The two embrace. Catherine towers over the tiny doctor. “Thank you so much for coming.”

  “I only wish we could be seeing each other under better circumstances.” A look passes between the two, the meaning of which is lost on me. Dr. Ann collects herself and releases my wife from her miniature bear hug. “Where’s the little one?”

  “She’s outside playing with her cousins. Oh, I’m sorry. Have I introduced you to my mother-in-law and her partner?”

  Partner was the term my mother preferred. She and Glen had never married, and Mom considered the word “boyfriend” more appropriate for teenagers and twenty-somethings than for people of their age.

  Introductions are performed, hugs given, thank yous said.

  Dr. Ann excuses herself and finds a seat, leaving Catherine, Mom, and Glen by themselves; alone amongst a sea of people.

  Depressing. Funerals suck.

  I shift my view to Dr. Ann.

  Consider her a cameo player in one of your favorite movies. She’d never have top billing once the credits rolled, but when she entered the scene something important was on the horizon.

  CHAPTER 14

  My knee bounced and the little nubs I’d come to refer to as nails were once again the focus of my nervous energy.

  A daytime talk show played on the flat screen TV. I wasn’t interested. Nor was I interested in magazines such as Motherhood and Women’s Health. The Lawrence, NJ-based OB/GYN seriously needed to reconsider their subscription list.

  Women filled the waiting room. As one of only two men, I was an interloper in the land of lady parts; out of my niche and uncomfortable as hell. The other guy, who couldn’t have been much older than me, sat next to an attractive brunette. Her fingers were laced across a stomach that looked about ready to explode. My male compatriot noticed me and gave me the ‘hang in there, man’ nod.

  Catherine put a hand on my knee.

  “You’re going to have a stroke if you don’t calm down, baby.”

  Thank God she’d whispered it in my ear. I’d already gotten a few odd looks.

  “Sorry.”

  “Catherine Maddox?” A young nurse in a sea green uniform and white sneakers stood in the far doorway, holding a clipboard. “Come with me, please.”

  She led us through a maze of hallways to a door designated as Exam Room 3. Who knew what horrors awaited me beyond that unassuming portal?

  “The technician will be with you shortly.” She handed Catherine a paper gown. “You can go ahead and change into this then hop up on the exam table.” With a smile, she left.

  The exam table, which I imagined inherited its design from dastardly medieval torture devices of yore, sat in the middle of the room, its stirrups empty and ready to hold its next victim in place. A self-contained machine that looked like a computer monitor and keyboard with unfamiliar dials, buttons, and a large trackball was perched on a moveable cart off to the side. I took it all in and felt more out of place than ever before.

  “Ricky, relax.” Catherine patted my cheek. She shed her clothes, put on the wafer-thin gown, and situated herself on the table. “I’m the one being poked and prodded today. It’s just a harmless ultrasound. No pain involved.”

  “Right. Painless. Relax.”

  How was I supposed to relax? I was surrounded by all things vagina. Diagrams of the female body, from head to toe and everything in between covered the walls, and a plastic cutaway model of a generic vagina sat on the counter next to me.

  I’m in the freaking Twilight Zone.

  Green around the gills,
I sat on an uncomfortable beige chair in the corner; surely a refuge from a 1970s middle school.

  A fingernail made its way to my mouth.

  Catherine glared.

  Foot tapping would have to do.

  A lifetime later (fifteen minutes in reality), the door opened and in entered the smiling technician.

  “How are we doing today?”

  The tech, a tall buxom blonde who radiated confidence and business, walked over to Catherine.

  “Lie back and relax, please.” Catherine complied and the tech produced two things: an industrial-sized squeeze bottle filled with what looked to me like primordial ooze, and a thin, phallic wand that was connected to the ultrasound machine via a curling white cable. She squirted the sludge onto the instrument and placed it underneath the gown … in between Cat’s spread legs.

  “Um, what’s that?” Bile rose in my gut. She was going to stick that thing in my girlfriend? Nobody’s sticking anything in her but me!

  The tech stopped and gave me a patient, if not bemused, smile. “I’m performing a vaginal probe. Trans abdominal sonograms come later.”

  Oh God. Vaginal probes? Trans abdominal whoosits? I felt like I was observing Alien Autopsy. Forehead cold and clammy, I kept my pie hole shut … in between savaging my fingernails.

  “Okay, Catherine,” the tech said. “Just relax.” Cat took a deep breath as the tech put the you-know-what you-know-where.

  A strange, green-tinted landscape popped up on the monitor. It was bizarre seeing the insides of my future wife like that. While she and the tech regarded it as if it was an everyday occurrence, in my eyes it may as well have been a satellite image of a far off planet.

  The tech manipulated the wand. “There’s the birth sac.” She indicated something that looked straight out of Aliens.

  “Is everything okay?” Cat said.

  The tech smiled. “It seems to be fine.”

  Finished, she cleaned and hung up the wand. I handed Catherine a few towels to clean up her nether region. It made me feel useful.

  “Once you’re finished you can go see Dr. Ann. Good luck.” Smile still in place, the tech sashayed out of the room.