Funeral with a View

by Schiariti, Matt

  The weeks turned into months and I fell into a funk. Exhaustion followed hot on the heels of sleepless nights, which chipped away at my temper. What at first I’d fought to compartmentalize carried over into everything, and it got to the point where, outside of work relationships, I'd nearly cut myself off from everyone, including my mother and Bill.

  Still, I honored Catherine’s request to keep quiet about what happened that night in March. Not an easy thing to do. I wasn’t used to keeping things bottled up for so long. Only when it affected my work did my gums loosen.

  CHAPTER 46

  Mid-May.

  I’d slept like shit. Again. Catherine was fast asleep by the time I’d gotten into bed. Normally prone to snuggling, she’d made no attempt to be close. I didn’t push it, and rolled over on my side with my back to her. Falling asleep had been a hard fought victory, but when sleep did come, it was fitful. Dark bags under my eyes and a pasty complexion in the morning were evidence of the lack of a quality night’s rest.

  “Something on your mind, Rick?”

  You could say that.

  I tore my eyes from my email—something I’d been staring at for God knows how long—when Sandy popped into my office.

  “I’m good. I was up half the night.” My smile was one hundred percent false. “Restless legs.”

  “Restless legs.” Sandy’s narrowed eyes and folded arms told me her bullshit meter was going crazy. “I hate when that happens. You know, sometimes Mother Nature can help with that,” she whispered, and made a peace sign.

  “I’m sure.”

  “If there’s anything you need to talk about, you’ll let me know?”

  “Absolutely. I’m good though.”

  “Have it your way.” She hesitated. “What are you doing for lunch?”

  “I’m sorry?” I blinked in confusion.

  “Are you doing anything for lunch today?” she said as if English were my second language.

  “No, I didn’t have any plans.”

  “You do now. We’re going out to eat. I’m buying.” By her tone, I knew better than to argue.

  “Okay.”

  “Good. I’ll come get you at one.”

  ~~~

  “Thank you.” Sandy flashed an attractive smile at the waiter as he refilled our water glasses.

  We were at a cozy Mexican restaurant located within minutes of the office, one of Princeton’s culinary gems, and a place Cat would love … if we still went out.

  “Rick, what’s with you lately?” She bit into a complimentary tortilla and I almost laughed at the beautiful, well-mannered woman eating with her hands, but the intensity in her eyes kept me silent.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Sandy.”

  “Don’t you?”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “Well, maybe I’ve been a little out of it.”

  “A little? You’ve been walking around the office like a robot for weeks, your work hasn’t been popping, and you’ve been snippy with your co-workers. That’s not like you, Rick” She pointed with a half-eaten chip. “That’s not like you at all.”

  I shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “Sorry? Be straight with me. Is it drugs? Alcohol? We can get you into a program. You have a bright future ahead of you and I’d hate … What are you laughing at?”

  “Nothing,” I said after my laughter subsided. “I’m not on drugs. And I’m not an alcoholic.”

  “Then what is it?” She reached across the table and placed her hand atop mine. “You can tell me. Please. Whatever it is, I want to help.”

  Her hand felt warm and there was no denying that the contact felt fantastic.

  After a deep breath I spilled my guts about the miscarriage, the emergency room, the iciness at home … everything. To her credit, Sandy sat in rapt attention as I rambled on, and didn’t make a peep until I’d fully purged.

  “My God. I had no idea.” She sat back in her chair. “I never would have guessed … I mean … You and Catherine seem so happy.”

  “We were … are. We will be, I hope. I’m trying to make the best of it, but it’s wearing on me. You wanted to know why I’ve been fucking up at work? There it is.” I’d never dropped an F-bomb in front of my boss before, but she didn’t bat an eyelash. “But that’s an advantage of choosing career over family, isn’t it? You don’t have to deal with any of this.”

  Her cheeks flushed, and she took a sip of water. I felt like a complete ass.

  “I’m sorry, Sandy. That was uncalled for.”

  Sandy adjusted her silverware almost obsessively, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, lacking the smoky quality I’d come to know so well. Instead it sounded, distant, sad.

  “It’s okay, Rick. Actually,” her blue eyes met mine, “work was a consolation prize.”

  “Excuse me for sounding like an idiot, but I’m not following you.”

  The waiter swooped in with our entrees, asked us if we needed anything else. We declined. Sandy picked up her knife and fork, put them to her plate, set them down.

  “I was married once,” she said, staring at her food. “It seems like a lifetime ago now. We weren’t that much different than you and Catherine. Young, in love, our whole lives ahead of us. I never thought it would end.”

  “What happened?”

  “Premature ovarian failure.” Not something I was familiar with, but it didn’t take much of an educated guess to deduce its meaning. “My ex came from a big family, and he wanted kids. Lots of kids. I couldn’t give them to him.”

  “Weren’t there other ways?” I asked. “Treatments? Adoption?”

  Sandy smiled, finally looking up from her plate. “There’s always a way, Rick, but not for him. He didn’t want to hear any of it. No adoption, no in vitro, nothing. After we found out about my infertility he saw me as damaged goods. My marriage effectively ended on the day I was given my diagnosis. He hung on for a while, tried to make a show of being supportive and understanding, but I knew it was a façade, a way to show his parents that he did ‘the best he could’. So much for in sickness and in health, in good times and bad.”

  I had no idea what to say.

  “So,” she continued, “I threw myself into work. If I couldn’t be successful at having a family, I was determined to have a successful career.”

  “You’ve certainly done that.”

  “As I said, a consolation prize. My bitch on wheels persona in the office? A front. All of it. I’m good at my job, but not nearly as confident as people think.”

  “Would it help if I said you had me fooled?”

  Red lips turned into a genuine smile. “A little.” She rested her elbows on the table and leaned in. “I’m not driven because thinking about what I had and lost makes me that way. I’m driven so I won’t have to think about it, Rick.”

  I’d seen the flaws in her act, witnessed hints at the true Sandy, the fun, thoughtful person beneath on several occasions, but little did I know. How could I have?

  We can’t know everything about everyone.

  “This all hits a little too close to home, Sandy.”

  “That’s why I shared. I can relate to what you and Catherine are going through because I’ve been there. Things like this leave their mark on a person and bleed into everything. I knew there was something bothering you and I’m glad I asked about it.”

  “I promise I’ll get back on track at work. You have my word on that.”

  “I know it. Take care of what needs taking care of. Everything else will work itself out.”

  “Thanks, Sandy. I appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem. And Rick,” her hand found mine again, “if there’s anything you need, and I do mean anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  There was nothing but truth in her deep, intense eyes.

  “Now let’s eat this before it gets cold,” she said with a wink.

  The sounds of the lunchtime rush filled our lull in conversation as Sandy and I started to eat.

  Life goes on.

  “
Rick? Is that you?”

  Yes, life goes on. Too bad there’s no pause button.

  The faint southern lilt let me know who the voice belonged to even before I turned around.

  Mary Jo weaved her way through the close-packed tables, waving. My face cracked into a smile that must have resembled an African death mask.

  “I knew it was you,” she said, hitching the strap of her Gucci bag higher up on her shoulder. She was dressed casually in a denim skirt, a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and wedge sandals. Somehow, the run-of-the-mill outfit was elegant on her. “Fancy meeting you here like this. Good Lord it’s busy today.”

  I rose and gave her a hug. Sandy cleared her throat.

  “Mary Jo,” I said, “this is my boss, Sandra Colbert. Sandy, my mother-in-law, Mary Jo Maddox.”

  Mary Jo’s composure briefly faltered. “Nice to meet you, Sandra.” The tone wasn’t what one would consider hostile, but it didn’t ooze cheer either.

  “Likewise.”

  “So, Mary Jo,” I said before things had a chance to become too awkward. “What brings you here?” Duh.

  A bat of eyelashes seemed to wipe clean any disapproval. “Lunch, silly. I’m going to see an old friend and I’m picking up some take-out so I don’t show up empty handed. Is that the California burrito, Sandra?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Isn’t it to die for?”

  “Only thing I ever order here. It’s ruined everything else for me.”

  “Isn’t it the truth? Sorry to have interrupted your lunch, Ricky.” My mother-in-law gave me a final hug. “Go back to it before it gets cold. Take care of yourself. And it was a pleasure meeting you, Sandra. Bye-bye now.” With a wave, she left us to pick up her food.

  I sat down with a huff.

  “She seems nice,” Sandy said.

  “She is.”

  “You know, Rick, if you weren’t in the mood for Mexican you could have told me.”

  “What?”

  “You’re more interested in your fingernails than what’s on your plate.”

  Why was I so nervous? It’s not as if I had been caught doing anything wrong, but sometimes the impression of impropriety is almost as bad as impropriety itself. Truth be told, I was afraid my guilt at having opened up to Sandy had left a stink on me. Pulling my fingers from my mouth, I picked up my cutlery.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Right as rain.”

  But that’s the thing about rain, isn’t it? When it rains, it inevitably pours.

  CHAPTER 47

  As part of what had become routine, Catherine and I were in front of the TV watching something I can’t even recall, both lost in our own personal funks. Things hadn’t improved. My wife’s barrier deflected any and all talk of the miscarriage, and attempts at intimacy were repelled with equal success. If it were one or the other, I’d have been able to deal. Both at the same time made me miserable. The surprise visit from Mary Jo earlier in the day didn’t help matters any. I sensed something coming, a climate shift much like when the air changes before a big storm. The atmosphere in the house was heavy and ominous.

  “Something on your mind?” Catherine said, eyes fixed on the television.

  “Not really. Why?”

  “You’re fidgeting and your nails are bleeding.”

  I regarded the tips of my fingers. Small crimson dots beaded my skin in disorderly patterns.

  She turned off the TV and slowly turned to face me. “Anything you’d like to tell me?”

  When you’ve been with someone long enough, when you’ve lived with them, slept with them, shared the most intimate aspects of your body and mind with them, you become attuned to their emotional queues. Body language, tone of voice, the set of their eyes; any one of these can hint at their state of mind. Interpreting these non-verbal clues gets to be second nature. In the time it takes for a humming bird to complete one flap of its wings, I picked up on every one of them. Posture: rigid, tense, accusatory. Tone of voice: cold, measured. Eyes: hard.

  The storm was right on top of me and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

  “How was lunch, Rick?” The sentence slammed into my head like a plummeting wall of water. Mary Jo had dropped the dime on me. Purely innocent, I was sure, but this was what had me so on edge. Sandy was not Catherine’s favorite person, and the fact that I’d been seen in public with her hadn’t been well-received.

  “It was fine,” I said lamely.

  An eyebrow rose. “And the company?”

  “It was just lunch, Cat.”

  “Just lunch,” she said, each word dipped in mockery. “Just lunch with your girlfriend.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Yeah, I heard you, but my ears must be going rotten in my old age, because what you said doesn’t sound like my wife at all.”

  “She tell you how much she wants you?”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Cat?” My voice was slowly getting louder, not yet a yell, but well on its way.

  She inched toward me with predatory movements, her body speaking a language I didn’t know. “Why were you so nervous when you saw my mother?”

  “I wasn’t nervous at lunch.” A complete and total lie. I was, but not for the reasons she seemed to be building up to.

  “That’s not the story I got.”

  “Then what is the story you got?”

  “Why didn’t you mention it?”

  “Why didn’t I mention what?” The questions were coming fast and furious, each drafting the last, almost too quickly for my brain to process.

  “That you went out to lunch with Sandy.”

  “Because you didn’t ask.”

  Her laugh was dark. “Because you didn’t ask,” she said as if tasting each word’s truth. “That’s funny. Gee, honey, why didn’t you tell me you have cancer? Oh, I dunno, sweetie. Because you didn’t ask?”

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Agitated, I stood up, feeling as if I’d torn my skin away from a surface it had been glued to for weeks. “This is getting ridiculous.”

  “Did you ‘puke’ to her, Ricky? Tell her about all our recent trouble in vivid detail?”

  My face flushed. I bit my cheek, choking on the lie before I had a chance to say it, knowing she’d see through it like a thin pane of glass.

  Catherine wrapped her arms tightly around her chest, and she wore an expression of unabashed smugness. “Am I getting closer to the target?”

  “What target!”

  “I’m not stupid, Rick. The long hours at work, the constant texts—”

  It was my turn to laugh. “What is this, the Fifties? You act like I come home smelling of Scotch and cheap perfume with lipstick on my collar. You knew I’d have to work late sometimes, Cat. That was part of the promotion.”

  “She texts you all the time, Ricky. Probably telling you how much she cares, how special you are—”

  “At least someone does, which is more than I can say for you!”

  Everything froze. The room, the clock, her expression of utter shock, the very air went into a tense, all-consuming stasis. I couldn’t believe I’d said those words, couldn’t fathom I had it in me to think them, much less give them voice. Catherine and I had had our fair share of arguments over the years, but this one was unlike any of its predecessors. This one had weight, a form, teeth. It went beyond words and turned into a vicious monster.

  Deliberately, at the pace of molasses, Catherine got to her feet, hazel eyes locked onto me, and when she spoke, it was quiet, making up with intensity what it lacked in decibels.

  “You have a lot of nerve.”

  “No, you have a lot of nerve. For fuck’s sake, Cat. You’ve been walking around the house like a zombie for the past two months. I can’t take it anymore. You won’t talk to me, won’t sleep with me,” I threw my hands up, frustrated as I searched for my next words, “you won’t even touch me.”

  Teeth gnashed at her lower li
p, her eyes closed and head shaking. “I can’t …”

  “You can’t what? What is it you can’t do?” Careful not to spook her, I held her shoulders, not to keep her from running away, but for comfort and to let her know I was there. “Cat, I know we suffered a tragedy. I know it. But let’s talk, please? We’re roaming around the house, barely aware of each other. What kind of marriage is that? I want to help you. I want us to help each other. But we can’t do that if we don’t at least discuss things.”

  She continued to shake her head as I brought my forehead to hers. We’d said awful things, the most horrible things, but I knew I could talk sense into her. She was trying too hard to handle it all on her own. Catherine was depressed, had been for a while. I’d tried to help her, but, obviously, it hadn’t been enough.

  Our breathing synched, and I felt her relax.

  “Baby,” I continued, “maybe you should talk to someone. Maybe I’m not enough.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “You’re going through a lot. I think … I think you should get some therapy.”

  And just like that, the spell was broken.

  Catherine pushed me away, and I stumbled back, feeling shocked and wounded. What had I said that was so wrong? I couldn’t understand it. It made no sense.

  “I don’t need therapy,” she said, wiping at her nose, shaking her head in clear denial. “I don’t need therapy.”

  “You’re not thinking clearly, Cat.”