by Doug Burgess
Now I peer out the kitchen windows, over to Emma’s house. Her ancient Buick is parked out front and there is a light on in the kitchen. It’s Thursday night, which means Emma will be watching her shows. Cop dramas mostly, the gorier the better. It’s always been a strange side of her otherwise buttoned-up personality. “Give Em a semi-decomposed corpse in a lonely field,” Aunt Constance likes to say, “and she’s a happy woman.” A flickering blue light reflects on the grass outside her parlor windows. But why hasn’t she come by?
“I’m gonna go check on Emma,” I say.
Grandma doesn’t look up from her toast. “Tell her those eggs she brought last week were bad. Feathers and blood. Had to throw half away.”
Outside the air has a definite chill, and there’s a hint of frost on the lawn. I shiver in my shirtsleeves. Emma’s house is smaller than Grandma’s, a gray saltbox Colonial whose austerity and uncompromising squareness always reminded me of Emma herself. A pot of nasturtiums greets callers at the door. I knock, ring the bell.
“My God, what is that? Is that a body?”
The television blasts away in the front room. Emma has grown rather deaf lately. I try the door and, sure enough, it’s unlocked. It opens right into the parlor, where a rocking chair is pulled up close to the television set. Dr. Ross and Detective Stone peer down at a mangled corpse on the screen. But the chair is empty.
“Emma?”
“Dead some days I expect. There is hypostasis on the lower back and forearms, suggesting…”
The inside of the house is small and plain, with only a few stickback chairs in the living room, and a kitchen with a built-in table just behind. A kitchen light with a wicker shade dangles overhead. The light is on, gleaming off a pile of copper pans strewn on the floor. The shelf above the stove is skewed at a cockeyed angle, one plank dangling loosely from a single bent nail.
“Emma, you there?”
The kitchen island is one of those old-fashioned stainless-steel models with ceramic sides and a grooved draining board to catch the juices. On the floor behind the island a pair of bare, bluish legs stick out at an odd angle. Fuzzy pink carpet slippers point upward toward the ceiling. Emma’s fingers curl loosely around the handle of a stockpot. The saucepan and braiser lie at her feet. The skillet, polished steel with a weighted iron base, rests gently against her gray curls. A dark smudge on its rim corresponds exactly to the deep wound across her forehead.
“Yes,” says a voice behind me, “that’s just how she was when I found her.”
Grandma is standing in the doorway holding an unlit cigarette and studying the corpse of her best friend with a dispassionate eye.
“How you found her?”
“Sure. Came by a couple hours ago to ask if she had any strawberries, and there she was. Head bashed in something awful.”
“But…” My brain is working sluggishly. “But you said it was a man!”
“A man? What man?”
“I don’t know! You said it was a man, that there was blood everywhere, something about lobsters…”
We both stare as if the other had gone completely insane.
“My God.” I take hold of the kitchen island to steady myself. “Why you didn’t call the police?”
“I did. I called them, and Connie and Irene. I called everybody. I called you, David.”
Of course. And Irene, Constance, and Billy down at the police station had all reacted just as I had. Which is to say, not at all. “I kept calling and calling,” Grandma goes on, sounding a little peeved, “but nobody answered, so finally I just gave up. What else was I supposed to do?”
“But why didn’t you tell me when I got here…? Oh…”
That look comes back into her eyes, half combative and half terrified. The Revenge of Fuzzy Acres. “I’m sorry, Grandma.”
She shrugs. “Had to happen someday. And this was quick, at least. She prob’ly never felt a thing.” Still, Grandma shudders.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’ll call the police.”
“Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
Grandma decides this is a good exit line and makes her way back to the house. I’m about to follow when something brushes against my shoe. Something large, dark, and prehistoric is scuttling along the floor, making its laborious bid for freedom.
A lobster.
Within the hour the police are called, an ambulance ordered, and Grandma is back in her kitchen with a shawl wrapped round her shoulders, a mug of tea in her hand. Aunt Constance remains at Emma’s house, manfully directing the ambulance crew and policemen. Everyone says she is splendid in an emergency. Aunt Irene comes by to keep Grandma company.
Irene is not a small woman, and tonight she has thrown an alpaca shawl over her knitted wool coat and plush pink nightgown. Fabric billows out in all directions. “Ouf!” she cries, collapsing into the chair next to Grandma. “What a night! You all right there, Mags?”
“Irene,” Grandma answers, looking at her coolly over a raised cup, “what the hell is wrong with you? It’s almost ten. What are you doing here?” She casts a knowing glance. “Has Phil got ‘company’ over again?”
Irene, already flushed, gets redder still. “Phil’s dead,” she answers, more brutally than usual. Then she turns to me. “Hey, sweetheart. Sorry you had to deal with all this.”
“Where’s Emma?” I ask.
“Down at Newport General. They’ll keep her till we make other arrangements. I already called Mr. Fuller. He’s up in Tiverton but does all the services at the United Congregational down the road. Very tasteful.”
“Was she a Congregationalist?”
“Who knows? It don’t matter, anyhow. There’s only but one big church in town, so they tend to do all the marriages and funerals. Except for the Jews. But there’s only a couple of them, and they go ’cross the bridge to Touro.” She sips her coffee. “I spoke with your dad.”
“And?”
Her lips form a thin line, which is as close as Irene ever comes to showing displeasure. “He knows you’re here. I guess he’ll see you at the funeral. Probably not before.”
“Bastard,” I mutter. Grandma doesn’t hear, and Irene pretends not to. I gather up the plates and rinse them in the sink. Irene joins me, and under the sound of the gurgling she leans in. “Sorry! I thought I’d make it here earlier. Was she extra weird?”
“No. Almost normal, actually. Seems to be taking it pretty well. Too well, really, for someone who just lost her best friend. She forgot that she found the body, but then when she saw it again it was like—I dunno, like finding a stain on the carpet or something.”
Irene nods sagely. “It’s like that with a lot of things now. Doesn’t want to admit she can’t remember, so she fakes it. Poor thing doesn’t even know what emotions she’s supposed to feel. Ah, well, there’s one comfort, I suppose. In a couple hours she won’t remember Emma’s gone. Poor Emma. What a way to go.”
“I’m so sorry, Aunt Irene.” And I am. Of all the Aunts, Emma was the most like actual family to me. Neither as smart as Aunt Constance nor as kindly as Aunt Irene, she was somehow more real than either, more solid. She tutored me on geography and physics when Dad was away and Grandma too busy. She let me build a tree house in her yard. “What can I do?” I ask, knowing the answer already.
“Well, Constance is handling all the funeral arrangements, and I need to be at the shop…”
I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. Once the words come they cannot be taken back. “Shall I stay with Grandma for a while?”
“Oh would you?” Irene gushes, seemingly surprised by the offer. She spoils the effect by adding, “We’ll make up your room just like it was. It won’t have to be very long. And we never see enough of you, David. Connie was saying just the other day she can’t remember the last time you were down.”
I remember the last time I was down. I susp
ect Irene does, too. It was when Grandma decided I was a burglar and then, even more disturbingly, that I was Grandpa. We had five minutes of extremely awkward conversation before Aunt Irene intervened and drowned Grandma with The Late Show.
“So tell me,” Aunt Irene leans closer, “can you square it with the college, being gone? Can you take sick leave?”
I realize there’s no point in hiding it from her. The whole story is going to come out anyway. “No,” I answer, as calmly as I can, “they fired me when they found out.”
“What?” Irene drops her plate into the sink with a clatter. “They can’t do that!”
“Sure they can,” Grandma calls from the table. “They do it all the time.”
“Who?” Irene asks her, curious.
“American Bandstand,” Grandma answers darkly. “Can’t believe a single damned word.”
Irene turns back to me and lowers her voice. “How did they find out?”
It’s my turn to shrug. “I had to turn in a prescription form to Benefits. It had my old name on it, and medical history. Somebody asked a question. Supposed to be confidential. Guess it’s not.”
“Just like that.” She shakes her head. “Frigging Catholics. If only you’d gotten that job in Buffalo…”
“Well, now I can go back and ask for it,” I say with a smile. But we both know what’s really coming. Months of unemployment followed by adjunct Hell in some godawful community college. Living from week to week. And no medical, of course, which is going to be damned inconvenient. The shots alone run about a hundred-fifty dollars a pop. But my problems are still a ways off; Grandma’s are right at hand. “What happens…after?” I ask, nodding towards her.
Irene’s hands clench slightly. “It’ll have to be the Methodist Home,” she answers in a whisper. “Connie already called them. There’s a waitlist, but poor Mrs. Everard has stage-four liver cancer so it can’t be long now. A couple months, at most.”
“I can stay here till then, if you’d like.”
“Oh, that’s lovely. We’ll help, of course. I’ll bring over the groceries every Friday night, and Connie’s been handling the household finances…”
“What are you two whispering about?” Grandma demands.
Irene paints a sympathetic smile on her face and turns around. “We were just talking about how we will handle things, now that poor Emma is gone. You’ll miss her, won’t you Maggie, dear?”
“Miss Emma? Miss Emma?” Grandma’s eyes shift out of focus. She goes on, dreamily, “That’s her problem, of course. Always a miss, never a missus. If only Teddy Johnson had married her…”
“Poor Teddy!” Irene responds, recognizing an old cue.
“That would have been different. I always said Emma would be a splendid mother. She has all the right instincts. Too late now, I guess.” This seems a lucid comment, and Irene nods enthusiastically. But then Grandma continues, “She needs to get out more. Can’t stay cooped up in that house all day. If she hung ’round the Boy and Lobster like the other girls do, she’d find someone right enough. Nothing wrong with her looks. And a pretty little sum in the bank, too. A man could go farther and fare worse. How old you suppose she is?”
Irene is making frantic semaphores at me, but stupidly I answer, “She was eighty-one.”
Grandma scoffs. “Don’t tease. In fact, you seem a likely enough young cub. Got a girlfriend?”
“I…no.”
“Well we’ve got this friend, see. She lives next door. Kinda shy, but you can work past that…”
“Maggie,” Irene interjects with forced cheerfulness, can’t you see that’s David? Your grandson?” She says this as if Grandma’s spectacles aren’t strong enough.
“Grandson?” Grandma repeats. “No. That’s not right. I never had a grandson.” She looks at me blankly. “You do look familiar, though. But your hair’s too short. And there’s something wrong with your…”
“It’s time for bed.” Irene announces chirpily.
Grandma accepts this and stands up. Irene massages her shoulders. “Need any help getting up the stairs?”
“Never have, Irene.” She turns looks me up and down. “Let me know if you’d like an introduction. There’s a dance at Pawtuxet next Friday. Everybody’ll be there.”
“Okay, Grandma,” I answer sadly.
“Won’t that be nice?” Irene tweets. She had apparently decided to indulge this fantasy. Perhaps she, too, remembers the Pawtuxet dance. “I’ll wear my Alice Blue chiffon. And you’ve got that sexy black number, Mags, as I recall. What do you suppose Emma will wear?”
“Emma?” Grandma looks scandalized. “What’s the matter with you, Irene? Emma’s dead. She just got walloped with her own pots.”
And so to bed.
Chapter Two
The day of the funeral is neither hot nor cold, sunny nor rainy, but everything at once, a New England allsorts of bluster and wet sunshine. The air is a separate element, so thick with mist that it turns the lamps in the sanctuary into halos of yellow light.
Fog seeps in under the doors, through the cracks in the windows, into my grandmother’s mind. The others are worried. I see them watching her, wondering if she can make it through the service. But this is one of her good days. She shows up on time, wearing her pearl choker and a black dress that buried her mother, father, two uncles, and husband. Her makeup is sparse but correct, a thin line of pale lipstick and even fainter eyeliner. She never opens the hymnal; she knows them all by heart.
“Eternal father, strong to save…”
It’s a pretty good turnout, all things considered. Aunt Irene and Aunt Constance sit across from us, Irene in a voluminous mantilla that could have been borrowed off an extra from Carmen; Constance looking nunlike in a crisp black dress and piecrust collar instead of her usual blue jeans and sweatshirt. Neither of them is crying. The rest of the congregation are the kind of people who would always turn up at a funeral: distant relatives, local acquaintances, and gawkers. Wally the Postman is here, with his blowzy wife. She’s sixty if she’s a day but has somehow managed to squeeze herself into a black leather halter top. Her nails are lacquered vermilion; her hair is fire-engine red. Wally sits hunched over, face like a rotten grapefruit, John Deere cap pulled low over his eyes. He’s the only self-proclaimed Trumpkin in Little Compton. His wife has a pair of plastic chickens on her mailbox that she dresses up for the holidays. Right now they are Mr. and Mrs. Dracula.
Our local GP, Dr. Renzi, has put on a tie and smoothed back his silver hair, and looks very distinguished next to batty Mrs. Thurman, who has dressed for the occasion by pulling a black trench coat over her bathrobe. The Karabandis sit with their seven children and look around them hopefully. They are here on approval. It was not well taken when they decided to purchase Dykstra’s Dry Goods after Jim Dykstra had his last heart attack. Not because they were Bangladeshi—Little Compton has voted Democrat every year since 1908—but because they were from Flushing, Queens. They brought with them a typical urbanite’s notion of what a “quaint” country general store should look like, filling Dykstra’s with plush toys, jams, homemade soaps, and scented candles. Mrs. Karibandi dispenses penny candy from glass jars. Now locals have to drive all the way to Middletown if they want spaghetti sauce.
In the far corner of the nave, lit with watery sunlight from the window above, is a couple I’ve never seen before. The wife is in her late thirties, with an aureole of perfectly coiffed blond hair and a body that speaks of personal trainers, long jogs, and yoga. She is dressed with insolent simplicity in a charcoal skirt, white blouse, and six-inch black heels that even from across the aisle I recognize as Jimmy Choos. Her husband looks like he is running for something: dark pinstripe double-breasted suit, midnight blue tie, autumn tan-and-black hair turning genteelly gray at the temples. Set against Little Compton’s caravansary of grotesques, this couple seems fantastically de trop, like extras from a
cruise line brochure. I can’t wait to ask Irene about them.
And at the back, leaning up against one of the pillars, is Billy Dyer. Chief Dyer now, though he still has freckles on his nose and a wedge of strawberry-blond hair that sticks up all over his head like he’s been electrocuted. The blue uniform hangs lumpily on his thin frame. I heard he got married a couple months ago. Debbie Antonelli, with her squashed-pug face and chunky jewelry. Aunt Irene tells me there’s a little stranger on the way in the spring. “Well, almost spring,” she amends, significantly. Billy catches me staring at him, and stares back. We both look away at the same time.
It is not a long walk to the grave. Constance, her two sons, Mr. Fuller, the undertaker, and I all serve as pallbearers. The coffin is polished pine with a garland of summer jonquils. It feels too light, and as we make our way down the steps one of the sons, Petie, loses his footing and we all hear the unmistakable thump of the body shifting inside. Constance grimaces. We reach the burial mound where Pastor Paige is waiting, a prayerbook open in his hands.
A few tourists wander past and snap photos. I don’t blame them; it’s picturesque in an Edward Gorey sort of way. Wraiths of gray cloud swirling around black figures, with a title like The Anstruthers Await the Inevitable. But the cameras affect Maggie. Her eyes narrow. “That’s just not right,” she mutters.
“It’s okay, Grandma,” I whisper back. “They’ll be gone soon.”
“Dammit,” she says, “just because he’s the President, that doesn’t make it right.”
Pastor Paige has donned his whitest cassock for the occasion. He’s a nice old boy, but the fact that he was born on the wrong side of Ireland has forever doomed him to be denied his most cherished ambition, which is the priesthood. He still wears his dog collar out and about, even though no one expects it from a Congregationalist.