by John Herbert
By shortly after one o’clock everything was done, and my folks and I and the children sat down for lunch. Conversation between my parents and me was sporadic at best and centered on the details of the day—what we had each done during the morning and what we predicted lay ahead that night—rather than on the larger issues facing us, which was definitely fortunate and perhaps intentional.
“What are you going to do this afternoon?” my mother asked as she started to clear the dishes from the table.
“Believe it or not, I was thinking I might lie down for a while,” I replied, swallowing the last bite of my tuna sandwich. “This morning really took a toll on me, I guess.”
“I know it’s taken a toll on me,” she answered. “And on your father,” she added while she watched him slowly sip his coffee. “A few hours of rest would probably do us all good.”
Ten minutes later, the lunch dishes stacked in the sink, John in his crib, Jennie with my folks, I stretched out on the guest room bed. I lay on my back, hands clasped on my chest, eyes closed, for fifteen minutes before accepting the fact I couldn’t will myself to sleep. With a sigh, I rolled over onto my side, wondering what I should do. I should sleep, I thought. Or maybe I should call the funeral home and make sure everything’s okay.
Another moment of consideration and the decision was made. I rolled off the bed, put on my sneakers and went into the library. I quickly scanned a yellow pad still on the desk and found the number for the Tarasan-Virag Funeral Home and the name of the director I had met earlier that morning. I dialed the number.
“Good afternoon,” a woman answered quietly. “Tarasan-Virag Funeral Home.”
“Good afternoon. My name is John Herbert. I’m calling for Paul Virag.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but Mr. Virag isn’t here at the moment. Could someone else help you perhaps?”
“I don’t know. I’m calling about my wife, Peggy Herbert. I dropped off her things this morning. Is there someone I can talk to about her?”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Herbert. Just one minute.”
In seconds, a man’s voice came on the line. “Mr. Herbert? This is Jerry Crandall. How can I help you?”
“Well…I was calling to see if you had finished getting my wife ready for tonight.”
“We’re just about finished, Mr. Herbert. With the dress and the jewelry you dropped off this morning, I think your wife is going to look lovely.”
“That’s good to hear. I appreciate your efforts.”
“Please. That’s what we’re here for.”
I hesitated, not knowing how to broach the next topic, and Crandall assumed the call was over.
“Mr. Herbert, if there’s anything else we can do for you tonight during the viewing, please let me know. I’ll be on duty when you arrive.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, there is one more thing I’d like to ask of you.”
“Of course, Mr. Herbert. What is it?”
“I’d…like to come over now…or whenever you’re finished getting my wife ready…to look at her. To make certain she looks the way she should. The way she did. If you know what I mean.”
I could feel Crandall pulling away from me before he said a word. “Really, Mr. Herbert, that isn’t necessary. We do this all the time. I’m quite certain you’ll be very pleased with the result.”
“I’m sure I will be,” I replied, “but I’d still like to see my wife before tonight to make certain she looks like the woman everybody knew. That’s not a problem, is it?”
“No, of course not, Mr. Herbert. It’s just that this usually isn’t done, and as I said, it’s not necessary. Really it isn’t.”
“I understand that, Mr. Crandall. But it’s very important to me. The lady your people are working on is my wife.”
I imagined him rolling his eyes and looking up at the ceiling. “Well, if you think you’re going to want to change anything, you’ll have to get here before the makeup artist and hairdresser leave. I can’t ask them to make a second trip.”
“I can be to you in twenty-five minutes,” I said. “Is that soon enough?”
“That’ll be fine, Mr. Herbert,” Crandall replied with obvious reluctance. “Come to the front door and ring the bell. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Before I could thank him, he hung up.
A minute later, after leaving a quickly written note to my folks on the kitchen table, I slipped out the back door and drove to the funeral home to inspect the remains of my wife.
Forty
Twenty-seven minutes later I turned into the empty parking lot of the Tarasan-Virag Funeral Home and pulled into a slot to the right of a columned portico over the front entrance. Crandall must have been watching the lot, because he opened one of the double doors for me before I was halfway up the front steps.
“Mr. Herbert?”
“That’s right.”
“Jerry Crandall.”
We shook hands just inside the door, and I could tell he was trying to judge my state of mind before he let me come too far into the building.
“I really appreciate this,” I said, hoping I sounded calm and reassuring.
He closed the door behind me without answering and turned the deadbolt. He then gave the door a single pull to make certain it was locked, looked at me once more and started to walk down a hall to the right of where we were standing. “Come this way, please. We just finished preparing Mrs. Herbert, but both the makeup artist and the hairdresser are still here if there’s anything that’s not to your liking.”
We walked side by side, our footsteps silenced by the deep pile carpet. Midway down the hall we turned to the left through a set of open double doors and went down two steps into an enormous chapel. At first I thought the room had a low ceiling, but I quickly realized the ceiling was at least ten feet high and only appeared low because of the size of the room. At least one hundred fifty padded folding chairs were arranged in perfectly straight row after perfectly straight row across the expanse of carpet. Around the perimeter of the room were a couple dozen high-backed upholstered armchairs as well as several large sofas. Only a few of the room’s many wall sconces were lit, but the light was more than enough to illuminate the multiple shades of gold, bronze and cream in the room’s carpet and wallpaper.
Peg’s casket, its lacquered mahogany reflecting the light from the wall sconces, was centered against the wall opposite the double doors. A middle-aged, overweight woman and a slim man at least ten years her junior stood perfectly still at the head of the casket, waiting for the next few minutes to unfold.
Crandall and I walked down the side of the room towards the casket, Crandall nervously looking first at me, then at the man and woman, then back at me. When we got to within about five feet of the casket, he stopped and nervously indicated I should continue forward alone.
I took two steps and stopped. I intentionally avoided looking at Peg’s face. Instead, I looked first at the casket and took in the beauty of the wood and ran my hand over the flawless finish. Then I looked at Peg’s carefully folded hands. I noticed her left hand was on top so that her wedding band was clearly visible, and I nodded approvingly. I looked at her dress, her favorite blue dress, and tried to distinguish between the curves in the material that belonged to the dress and those that belonged to Peg. And then, I looked at her face.
And as I did, I realized that the last two images I would have of her and which I would remember forever were as inaccurate as they could possibly be. In one, only a day old, her face was ashen, her mouth and ears were ringed with blood, and her once thick, lustrous hair was tangled and frizzy. In the other, the one before me now, she looked like a glamorous stranger, a stranger with too much eye shadow and too much mascara, a shade of lipstick too bold and with hair teased and sprayed, something Peg had never done. Neither image was the Peg I had known. And yet, although both were totally false, both were completely real.
I looked at Peg for several moments before finding the will to speak. When I did, I spoke to the ma
n and woman still standing at the head of the casket. “I’d like you to take off some of the eye shadow, if you don’t mind. As I told Mr. Virag, she always wore it, but because her eyes were so blue, she didn’t need very much. And I’d like you to take off most of the mascara too. Again, she didn’t use much. And…I’m sorry, but the hair isn’t her either. It’s…too fancy. Too glitzy. She never teased her hair, and she never used hair spray. Her hair was so thick, she didn’t need to. It should just…kind of hang, in waves, gentle waves, if you know what I mean.”
Neither the man nor the woman responded. They didn’t nod in agreement or even signify they understood what I was saying. Nor did they shake their heads in protest or give any sign that they were angry or insulted. They just looked at Crandall in awkward silence and waited for him to respond. Finally Crandall took a deep breath and, without seeming to exhale, addressed each of my comments.
“Mr. Herbert, we can certainly remove some of the eye shadow if you’d like, and we can remove most of the mascara if that’s what you want. But the hair is a problem. I don’t know how to say this delicately, but…we lost a great deal of your wife’s hair while we were shampooing it, and the only way we could correct for that was to tease her hair the way you see it and then use hair spray to keep what hair was left in place. I’m afraid if we do anything more with your wife’s hair now, we might wind up with a much worse problem.” He let this sink in and then continued. “I do hope you understand that we’ve done our best.”
“I understand,” I replied, hearing my voice crack. “I do. You can’t erase the fact she’s gone through hell. I should have realized that. I just wasn’t thinking. I’m sure you’ve done all you can.” I extended my hand.
“Again, thank you for letting me come here today. I truly appreciate it.”
I looked once more at the stranger in the casket who was once my wife, shuddered in disbelief, and left the chapel without another word.
Forty-One
One of the many telephone calls I made on Monday was to Don Brady, a college buddy since my freshman year who now lived outside of Chicago. As soon as Don heard the news, he told me he’d come to New York for Peg’s funeral, but added that his wife, Lynne, wouldn’t be able to join him because she’d just given birth to their first child, a boy. I had known Lynne was due sometime in August, but I hadn’t given her pregnancy a thought since Peg went into the hospital. Anyway, I told Don I understood and thanked him profusely for being willing to make the trip.
He flew into LaGuardia Airport late Monday night, picked up a rental car and checked into a bed and breakfast in Cold Spring Harbor, a small village just west of Huntington. Shortly before eleven the next morning, the back doorbell rang, and there was Don. He talked with my parents and me for a while and then suggested the two of us grab lunch somewhere.
“I don’t know if I’m up to that, Don,” I replied dismissively. “I had a terrible night’s sleep last night, my nerves are shot and I feel like hell warmed over. Maybe some other time?”
“I think you could use a break now,” Don pressed. “Come on. A change of scenery for a few hours. A little fresh air. It’ll be good for you. Isn’t there some place you’d like go?”
“Well, we could go to the yacht club, I suppose. It’s a weekday, so it won’t be crowded, and we could eat outside. Not the worst idea, I guess, but…I don’t know, Don. Doesn’t seem right somehow.”
“Come on,” Don urged. “We’ll be gone an hour or two at most. Trust me. You’ll feel better if you go.”
“What do you think, Mom?” I asked, hoping she’d been listening to Don’s entreaties.
“I think it’s a good idea. You should go.”
“You’ll be okay with the kids?”
“I’ll be fine. Go.”
“Guess that settles it,” I said, turning back to Don. “But I still think I’m going to be lousy company.”
“You’re not going out to lunch to entertain me,” Don said with a smile as he got up from the kitchen table. “I’m supposed to entertain you.”
We arrived at the club around twelve-fifteen and entered the clubhouse from the side entrance. Ellen Walsh, the wife of the club’s general manager and the hostess for lunch that day, was standing on the far side of the dining room talking to one of the waitresses. When she saw me, her eyes opened wide in surprise and then filled with tears as she rushed over to me, arms outstretched. She hugged me for several seconds before pushing herself away to speak.
“I just heard about Mrs. Herbert not even half an hour ago,” Ellen exclaimed, wiping away her tears. “I couldn’t believe it. I said to the woman who told me that she must have made a mistake, but she said no, it was true. Oh, Mr. Herbert, I am so, so sorry.”
“Thank you, Ellen,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.
The three of us stood awkwardly in the corner of the dining room, Ellen trying to regain her composure, me trying not to lose mine, and Don wondering what was going to happen next.
Ellen wiped her eyes once more and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t need people carrying on like this, I’m sure.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I assured her. “There’ve been a lot of tears the last two days, and I’m sure there’ll be a lot more before this is all over.”
She nodded but appeared to be regretting her show of emotion. “Will you be having lunch today, Mr. Herbert?” she asked, her normal businesslike demeanor returning. I said yes, and she led us to a table on the outside patio.
“And can I get you something to drink, Mr. Herbert?” she asked as she handed us our menus.
“I’ll have a Myers dark rum and orange juice, please,” I answered, instantly feeling guilty. Guilty for ordering a drink I enjoyed, and guilty for even being here in this beautiful spot on this beautiful day.
“And you, sir?”
“I’ll have a Budweiser, please,” Don answered, true to form.
We sat and waited for our drinks, looking out at Northport Harbor. The yacht club was positioned halfway up a hill overlooking the harbor, so from our vantage point on the patio, we could see hundreds of boats below us on their moorings. The water was a brilliant blue, reflecting the sky above, and looked alive as the breeze ruffled its surface. Little puffs of white cloud skittered across the blue sky as the boats swung on their mooring lines, almost in perfect unison—first in one direction, then in another, always trying to head into the wind, always one step behind. The club’s flags waved crisply while halyards on dozens of boats slapped in the breeze against aluminum masts. The scene before us was so beautiful and peaceful—so different from the chaos and white noise I felt inside.
Our drinks arrived, and I lifted my glass and tilted it in Don’s direction. “To health,” I toasted. “Nothing else matters.”
“Got that right,” Don agreed, tapping the mouth of his bottle against the side of my glass.
“So tell me about your son. You and Lynne must be excited.”
Don looked at me for a second and then looked out at the harbor. “We are,” he answered softly.
“What’s his name?”
“Donnie,” Don replied, turning to face me again. “Donald Brady III, to be exact. After my dad and me.”
“That’s great. I’m happy for you. Happy for you both.”
“Thanks. Unfortunately, though, not everything turned out like we had hoped.” He looked out at the harbor again before continuing. “Donnie has Down’s syndrome. Which, needless to say, came as a bit of a shock to us. We never expected to have a baby with a problem like that. Never gave the possibility a thought. And yet here we are, parents of a Down’s syndrome child.”
“Holy shit, Don.”
“Yeah, my reaction exactly. When the obstetrician came out of the delivery room and told me about Donnie, I knew he’d made a mistake. Or was talking to the wrong father. And then I realized there wasn’t any mistake, and he was talking to the right father.”
“Jesus, Don, I’m sorry. I don’t
know what to say. Except I’m sorry.”
“There is nothing to say,” Don answered matter-of-factly. “That’s the way it is. Period.”
“Simple as that?” I asked.” ‘That’s the way it is’?”
“Hey, it’s bad news,” Don replied. “Real bad news. There’s no other way to describe what’s happened. But the world hasn’t come to an end. And worse things could have happened.” Don paused, looking for the right words. “I think…Fate deals most people a bad hand sooner or later,” he continued. “The hand Fate’s dealt to Lynne and me with Donnie may not be the hand we wanted, but that’s the hand we got and the one we’re going to live with for the rest of our lives, whether we want to or not. The important thing is how we deal with that hand. We can either believe our situation is as bad as it could possibly be, and wallow in that thought, or we can be thankful our situation isn’t any worse.”
We both looked out at the harbor, each of us deep in thought.
“You know what I’m thinking?” I asked, breaking a silence that had lasted several minutes.
Don looked at me from across the table, eyebrows raised, questioning.
“I’m thinking what you said applies to me, too.”
“Applies to everyone, my friend. No exceptions.”
Don picked at the label on his empty beer bottle while I stared at what was left of my drink.
And then we both started to cry.
Forty-Two
Peg was buried on Wednesday, August 20th. Paul Virag, the funeral director, told me Tuesday night that if I wanted to have a few minutes alone with Peg before they closed her casket, I needed to be at the funeral home by nine Wednesday morning. He made a point of saying I couldn’t stay long. We had to be at St. John’s at nine forty-five, he explained, and his people needed time to remove all the flowers from the chapel, seal Peg’s casket, load it into the hearse and travel the mile and a half to the church in summer morning traffic.