Rules Get Broken

by John Herbert

  So at nine sharp, I pulled into the Tarasan-Virag parking lot with my father and mother, the children at home in the care of one of my cousins. Peg’s mother had become extremely upset during the wake the night before, and Peg’s sisters decided it would be best if they all went directly to the church rather than to the funeral home first. I hadn’t asked anyone else to join me, so the three of us were the only people there. As we reached the top of the steps, Paul opened one of the doors. He reminded us of our limited time and shepherded us down the hall to our chapel.

  Except for Paul and one gray-haired man standing in the corner, his hands clasped behind his back, we were alone in the huge room. Somehow understanding the order in which something like this should be done, my mother and father approached the casket first, hand in hand. They stood in front of it for perhaps a minute, heads bowed, shoulders bent under the weight of their sadness. My mother sighed several times and shook her head. My father stood rigidly, tears running down his cheeks. They then each laid a hand on the casket and slowly walked to the far side of the room.

  As they moved away, I walked up to the casket with leaden feet, each step an effort as I struggled to believe this was all really happening.

  When I reached the casket, I stood motionless—not praying, not thinking, just staring at Peg’s face and form, trying desperately to insure I would never forget what she looked like, even in death. I’d had difficulty remembering the sound of her voice that morning, and I was terrified to think the memory trace of her was already fading. I couldn’t let that happen. So I stood, and I stared.

  Fingers lightly touched my elbow. “Mr. Herbert?”

  I turned and saw Paul Virag standing behind me. “Mr. Herbert, we need to get ready.”

  “I know. I know. Just give me one more minute.”

  Paul nodded understandingly and stepped back.

  I turned again to Peg and looked down at her face for the last time. My eyes filled, and my vision blurred as I admitted to myself that our time together in this life was over.

  “I love you, Peg,” I whispered, laying my hand on top of hers. “Forever.”

  I wiped my eyes and turned away.

  “Why don’t you all have a seat in the lobby for a few minutes while we get Mrs. Herbert ready for the trip to St. John’s?” Paul said as he ushered us to the rear of the chapel. “Mr. Herbert,” he added, facing me, “we’re going to load as many of the floral arrangements as we can, but we won’t be able to take them all. There are too many. So we’ll take the largest and nicest ones with us to the cemetery, and the rest we’ll deliver to nursing homes in the area. Will that be all right?”

  I said yes, but I wasn’t listening to him. I was looking at Peg’s casket, and I was thinking that in a few seconds, someone would lower the lid, plunging her into eternal darkness. Then someone would crank the bolts that drew the lid down tight, so tight that neither air nor water would enter for—what had Paul said? One hundred years? And I was thinking once that happened, the beautiful Irish girl with the thick black shining hair and the brilliant blue eyes would be sealed away forever.

  Forty-Three

  We arrived at St. John’s at nine forty-three, my parents and I in the rear seat of a Tarasan-Virag limousine, Paul Virag in the front seat with the driver. When we were within a hundred feet or so of St. John’s, Paul got out of the car, walked up ahead of us and moved the yellow “No Parking” cones onto the sidewalk so our driver could park directly in front of the church. As soon as the car came to a stop, he opened the rear passenger door and helped each of us out of the car. The hearse pulled in front of our limousine while Paul was helping us disembark, and the driver of our car, along with three other men, all in the requisite black suits, slid Peg’s casket out of the hearse and onto a rolling gurney.

  While the three of us stood on the sidewalk in front of the church watching Paul give the four men last-minute instructions, passing cars slowed and their occupants stared at us, probably thankful, unconsciously, that we were standing there and not them.

  A rivulet of sweat ran down the small of my back, and I shivered.

  I wondered if I needed to use the bathroom, but I couldn’t make up my mind.

  Somewhere a police siren sounded, and it startled me because until that moment I hadn’t been aware of any sounds. Not from the traffic passing by, not from birds in the trees around us, not Paul Virag’s voice. Nothing. Until that moment, I realized, I’d been standing on the sidewalk shrouded in total silence.

  Numb, I thought. That’s how I feel. Numb. But more than that. I feel like I’m not really here. Like I’m watching all this from somewhere else. Like I’m not even a part of it.

  Don’t I wish.

  I wonder if the kids are all right? I asked myself. I wonder if I should’ve brought Jennie? No, I decided a second later. I did the right thing leaving her home. This is no place for her. No place for me either, I thought cynically.

  But before I could take that thought any further, Paul left the four men and walked down the sidewalk towards us. “Mr. Herbert,” he said to me when he was still a few feet away, “the pallbearers will bring the casket in first. They’ll walk slowly down the center aisle of the church, two men on each side, and they’ll position the casket at the base of the steps in front of the choir stalls. You’ll follow the pallbearers up to the front of the church, and you’ll take the first pew on the right along with your parents, your mother-in-law and your wife’s sisters. I’ll bring your parents in now, and then I’ll come back for you.” He turned to my mom and dad. “Mr. Herbert? Mrs. Herbert? May I ask you to join me now?”

  My father reached for my mother’s hand, but as he did, she extended her hand to me instead. She gave my hand a tight squeeze and looked at me for a long time before kissing me on the cheek. “I love you, honey,” she said simply, and then she took my father’s hand and followed Paul up the steps into the church.

  A minute later Paul was again at the bottom of the church steps. “Are you ready, Mr. Herbert?” he asked.

  “I’m ready,” I answered, dreading what was to come next.

  He turned to the pallbearers and gave them a quick nod, their signal to carry the casket and the gurney up to the top of the steps. When they had done so, he guided me up the steps behind them. He gave another quick nod, and the two men in front opened the double doors to the church and put down the doorstops. They carefully lifted the front wheels of the gurney over the doorsill and rolled it about ten feet into the back of the church, just behind the last row of pews.

  I stepped into the relative darkness and the cool interior of St. John’s and saw hundreds of heads turned towards the back of the church. I stared in amazement as I looked from one side of the church to the other; not a seat was to be found. The church was filled to capacity, and dozens of people stood in the back and halfway up the right-hand aisle.

  The pallbearers started to walk up the center aisle. I fell in step behind them. This is like a wedding procession, I mused, but without the music and without the bride. Well, the bride is here, I thought bitterly the next second. It’s just that she’s dead.

  We walked up the center of the church towards the choir stalls and the altar, and I tried to ignore the sounds of people crying, whispering, blowing their noses. I tried instead to concentrate on the creaks the old wood floor made under our feet and on a tiny squeak coming from one of the wheels of the gurney. I looked straight ahead, focusing on the foot of Peg’s casket, knowing if I made eye contact with the people who pressed in on either side of the aisle, I would lose what little control I still had. But in spite of my best efforts, the sounds of mourning filled my ears, and I couldn’t avoid seeing the contorted faces, the unchecked tears and the shaking heads.

  No, I thought, halfway down the aisle, wiping away tears, this is no wedding procession.

  Forty-Four

  Two and a half hours later, after Peg’s funeral service at St. John’s and her burial at Pinelawn Memorial Park, I sat in the limous
ine with my mother, my father, Peg’s mother and her three sisters on the way back to Beth and Dave’s house for lunch. We sat in silence, watching first countryside, then strip malls and then suburban neighborhoods slip past our blackened windows.

  As I looked out the window, I became conscious of the wedding band on my finger and slowly began to turn it against my pinkie with my thumb. I looked down at it and remembered how excited I’d been when Peg had first slipped it on my finger. I remembered how I had looked down at my hand hundreds of times for weeks after we were first married, marveling at how it looked and staring at it in wonderment. I thought about how it had never been off my finger in the nine years Peg and I had been married. And then I began to wonder if it still belonged on my finger, because I had just buried everything it had ever symbolized.

  What do I do with you? I thought as I stared at the gold band. If I take you off, what does that look like? Makes it look like I couldn’t wait to get you off, that’s what. You know that’s not true, and I know that’s not true, but no one else does. But why on earth should I wear you? Because if I take you off now—not even half an hour after I’ve buried Peg—people won’t understand. That’s why. But if not now, when? And why then and not now? Nothing’s going to be any different next week or next month or next year, except maybe next week or next month or next year, people will understand and won’t get upset. But that’s not enough of a reason for me. Sorry, but it isn’t. I hope you understand, Peg.

  I looked at Peg’s mother; she was still staring out the opposite window. Then I carefully pulled the ring off my finger and slid it into my jacket pocket.

  Book Three

  Forty-Five

  The day after Peg’s funeral I went back to work. Not because I was ready to, but because I had to. I knew if I stayed home, my thoughts would automatically spiral inward and downward, until the pain of losing her would become unbearable.

  I dismissed the idea of moving back to our house in Huntington. I worked for a living, and my children needed someone to take care of them. They needed a mother. So they got mine. And that meant I had to live with my parents if I wanted to be with my children.

  The following Tuesday, August 26th, after the kids were in bed, I decided to go through the paperwork that had accumulated since Peg had gone into the hospital and which I had been throwing into the top drawer of the guest room dresser. The drawer was filled with hospital bills, insurance statements, lab reports, receipts for everything under the sun, the normal mail from home, the cards I’d removed from the bulletin board in Peg’s room, and scores of unopened condolence cards and letters.

  I didn’t have the energy to pore over the hospital paperwork or the mail from home, so instead I pulled together the unopened cards and letters, sat down on the edge of the bed and started to read. Most were typical sympathy cards with typical personal messages—”We were so saddened to learn” or “Our thoughts and prayers are with you”—touching and nice to receive, but…typical.

  However, a few really stood out. A neighbor from across the street wrote that she had not only prayed for the repose of Peg’s soul, but had also asked Peg to remember us here on earth. She said she believed that those we love continue to have powerful influence on our lives after they die, and she was certain Peg would help me in death just as she had helped everyone in life by being a wonderful wife, mother, friend and neighbor.

  Another neighbor who had recently come to the States from England wrote that Peg was the prettiest, funniest, most life-enhancing person she had met since moving to America. She said she was always amazed at Peg’s immaculate house and her beautiful needlepoints and wondered how she managed to do everything so perfectly and still be a loving and caring mother. She felt blessed to have known Peg and was certain that life on Dewey Street was going to be much duller without her. She closed by assuring me that, hard though it may be to understand now, God has his reasons. He must, she said, or else the world is a very cruel place indeed.

  An assistant vice president at Chemical Bank where Peg had worked wrote that Peg was not just respected by her colleagues for her intelligence and candor. More importantly, he said, she was loved for her humanity and her warmth. He knew Peg would be sorely missed by her Chemical family, but he could not imagine the magnitude of her loss to me, my children and my family.

  One of Peg’s closest friends said the letter I was reading was the last of several she had written to me since Peg’s death. The others she had discarded because they were too laden with sorrow and pain. She said she had never told Peg how much she meant to her or the extent to which Peg had influenced her life, but she wanted me to know. She said she would always remember Peg for her sense of perspective, especially in times of crisis, her sense of humor, her good judgment, her ability to separate reality from image and the important from the unimportant, and her constant availability to her friends.

  A friend of one of Peg’s sisters whose husband had died two years earlier warned that the coming weeks and months would be terrible for me and others who loved Peg. But she had some advice to offer—advice based on what she had learned after her husband’s death and which had more than once pulled her out of depression and self-pity. She said that although my children and I must not allow ourselves to live by guessing at what Peg would want us to do, we should remember that Peg would never want to watch us suffer or be unhappy. Instead she would want us to celebrate her life and her spirit by immersing ourselves in life and all it had to offer as soon as we possibly could.

  One of Peg’s sisters wrote that she had always marveled at Peg’s consistency in that the dreams Peg expressed while playing childhood games and in teenage fantasies were the same ones she worked towards and attained as an adult. She credited me with enabling Peg to become the person she always wanted to be and said that I had helped her in ways no one else could have. She ended her letter saying that if we could measure quality in life, we would find that Peg had experienced a lifetime’s worth in the short time she had. I should have no regrets, therefore, she said, and I should at least take comfort in that.

  But the most memorable letter of all was from a man who used to be the sales manager for one of our largest customers and who had lost his wife to cancer several years before. His letter was dated August 19, 1980. Cal said that although he never had the pleasure of knowing Peg, he knew me, and he knew of my respect and love for her, so he knew she must have been a very special person. He wished that he could give me a simple formula for peace of mind or tell me that my adjustment would be easy, but he knew this simply was not possible. But life does go on, he assured me, and he was certain I would find each passing day to be a little more bearable.

  He then told me of an elderly friend of his mother’s who, having outlived two husbands, gave him some advice when his wife died that he treasured to this day. She told him he had just finished a good book and he should close it and put it on the shelf. Then he should open a new book and begin reading from it as soon as possible. He would always remember passages from the old book, she said, but they would become dimmer as he became absorbed in the new book. He admitted that his mother’s friend’s advice was easier said than done, but he had found it invaluable nevertheless and hoped it would be of value to me.

  I sat on the edge of the bed holding Cal’s letter in my hand, staring at his words, wondering what he was trying to tell me. Was he telling me to find someone to take Peg’s place as soon as possible? No, that couldn’t be. Cal would never think like that. But then, what was he saying? I read the words again. “You have just finished reading a good book.” That had to be a reference to his just deceased wife and, indirectly, a reference to Peg. And if it was, what else could “open a new book and begin reading from it as soon as possible” mean?

  I shook my head in confusion and frustration. Well, the letter’s beautiful and worth saving, I thought, even if I don’t know what it means.

  I got up off the bed and collected what I’d read. Ever the one for order, I stac
ked the cards so all the spines were to the left, smaller ones on top, larger ones on the bottom, and jogged them into a neat stack. I stacked the letters in size order too and threw away all of the envelopes. All except Cal’s. I read his letter one more time and then carefully slid it back into its envelope and placed it on top of the letter pile. I opened the dresser drawer and pushed the rest of the paperwork aside to clear a space for what I’d read, cards in one pile, letters in another. At least now, I reasoned, I had a clear line of demarcation between read and unread.

  But as I was about to close the drawer, I saw two groups of yellow lined pad paper protruding from under a hospital bill in the unread pile. One group consisted of several pages held together by a paper clip, while the other was considerably thicker, legal-sized and stapled. I pulled the smaller one out first and saw that the handwriting was Peg’s. In the left-hand margin she had written days of the week beginning with Wednesday, and next to each day she had written a paragraph. I realized I was looking at a diary of sorts, a day-by-day accounting of her stay in the hospital, beginning with the Wednesday she had checked into Huntington Hospital. I went back to the bed, sat down and started to read.

  Wednesday—To Dr. Goldstein for exam and consultation. So young. Only thirty-three! Took a blood sample. Low count on white, red and platelets. He tells me I have leukemia. He wants me in the hospital. Amy Bennett took me back to the Emergency Room. Impossible to describe my feelings as they ran from hysteria to confusion to disbelief. How can I be so sick? He says my chances are good.

  John brought Jen up. Wonderful therapy. John looked like he was going to break into tears any minute, but I didn’t cry at all. Just enjoyed the chatter. Her million questions. Her hurried hugs to tell me that she’s frightened too. The little guy couldn’t come. Too late for him. What if tonight in kitchen with Linda was last time I’ll ever see him? Can’t think like that. Mustn’t!