by P. J. Fox
Ash encouraged Belle to sit down.
There were a few stragglers but luckily none of them was Billy Meyers. Donna had asked him to stay, of course; had gone so far as to invite him over to the house, later. Belle hoped he didn’t show but, even if he did, he’d be a distraction. She could always claim a stomach ache. Which she was, in truth, beginning to feel. Along with her headache.
When was the last time she’d eaten?
Donna sat down next to her. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said.
“Me too, Mom.”
The last of the stragglers wandered out. Ash disappeared, presumably to speak with the funeral director. The actual funeral was set for the next morning. Ten o’clock, at the graveside.
The room smelled strongly of lilies. She’d heard that there was actually a perfume you could by, called Funeral Home. Sort of like new car smell, that used car dealers sprayed everywhere to cover the smell of ground-up Ritz crackers and stale smoke. It never really worked and this didn’t, either. No amount of flowers could mask the musky-antiseptic smell of embalming.
Belle stood up. “Let’s go outside. I need some fresh air.”
“Good idea.”
The funeral home did have nice gardens, and Belle led her mother down the steps and around to the gate in the hedge. There was a light breeze, which tasted of salt. Belle was glad of her jacket, but it wasn’t really that cold out. Especially not in the sun.
She and Donna walked along side by side.
Eventually, “Billy grew up to be quite the handsome devil.”
With the emphasis on devil. “At least he no longer alternates the same two sweatshirts every day.”
“Oh, Belle, you’re being mean.”
As she wasn’t about to start a fight with her own mother on the heels of her father’s viewing, Belle let it go.
The roses weren’t blooming yet, but this would be a nice garden in a few months. Belle had always loved roses. She hadn’t yet seen the roses at the castle, although Luna had promised that they were wonderful. From the most delicate shell pink to the deepest crimson and every shade in between, they positively rioted in the mountains’ short summer. There were even exotic midnight-blooming roses.
Belle wondered, idly, what color the roses would bloom here.
She reached out a fingertip and touched a thorn.
Donna watched her. “Belle,” she said, “you’ve gotten strange.”
Belle didn’t look up.
She took a step toward her daughter, back down the path. “It’s all the time you’ve spent in strange places. First Boston—”
“Cambridge,” Belle corrected her idly.
“First Boston and then some place in Germany and now—and now God knows where you’re living, and in sin, with that terrible man! And him old enough to be your father. Or almost.” She paused, gathering her courage. “You should come home and stay home and marry a nice boy like Billy Meyers. A nice boy with good values.”
Belle looked up. “Billy doesn’t have good values. He’s not what you think.”
“And this—this other man is? How well do you even know him?”
“Well enough.”
“You’ve known Billy Meyers your whole life.”
“And that’s the problem, Mom!”
“New things don’t last forever. Once the excitement wears off, people get tired of each other. That’s why you’ve got to pick people based on things that matter. Things other than their looks. Things like values. You know, shared values. Shared goals, for the future.”
“Like you did with Dad?” Belle was surprised to hear herself shouting. “Yeah, I bet. You’re the perfect person to give relationship advice, Mom. You married Dad, because you were pregnant with me. Was it his values that drew you into the sack with him?”
“Belle!”
And then Donna began to cry. In earnest. For the first time.
“Oh, God, Mom, I’m sorry.”
“No.” Donna dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. “You’re right. I did marry your father because I was pregnant. But I was also in love with him, and I thought it would work. I was very young, Belle. And I”—she blew her nose—”wanted something different for you. That’s all. Something better.”
“Mom, I am happy.”
“But when I’d heard that you’d given up your school—just given up.” Her red-rimmed eyes focused on her daughter’s. “Why? This man, he comes from a different world. Why are you rejecting your own world? What’s so wrong with us?”
“Oh, Mom. Nothing. I’m not rejecting anything. I just want—I want my own world. My own world and not yours. I’m finally doing what you always told me to do: I’m forging my own path. And I’m successful, Mom. I have my own studio now. I’m a sculptor.”
“A sculptor?” Donna sounded hopeful. “You always were very talented.”
“I’m going to have a show.”
“Can…can I go?”
“Of course! I’d love it if you went.”
There were benches, on either side of the path. Donna sat down on one and Belle sat down next to her, putting her arm around her. Her mother’s presence was warm and solid and comforting. Even if she did have terrible taste in clothes.
“I just want you to be happy.”
“I know, Mom.”
“And I do love his accent.”
“He’s a good man, Mom.”
“I don’t always understand your choices but….” Donna patted her knee. “I’m guessing you don’t always understand mine. Frank…he’s a good man, too. Not too much like your father. And you know…no one will ever replace Owen. He was my first love and he’ll be my last, honey. But Frank…Frank is a good man and he accepts me for who I am.”
“Are you happy?”
Donna considered the question. Finally, “yes, honey. Yes I am.”
“I’m glad.”
“I just…I don’t want to be left out again. I always…I always had visions of meeting the man you were dating, of you telling me that things were getting serious. Of sitting up together, late into the night, discussing his various good points while roasting S’mores in the fireplace.” She flashed her daughter a small, shy smile. “You know, like friends. I know I’m not much of a mother”—she raised her hand to Belle’s protest—”I’m not. It’s not natural to me. But I…I hoped that, as you got older, we could be friends.”
Friends. Belle liked the idea. Donna wasn’t much of a mother, she was right about that much. But she’d make one heck of a friend. And, these days, a friend was what Belle needed.
“You won’t be left out.”
“What—are you planning?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m sure Ash will have some ideas of his own, though.”
“Do his people—what are their weddings like?”
“Well, for one thing, the bride wears red.”
“Oh. Good. Red has always been your color.” Donna sniffed. “White washes you out.”
“Frank is going to have to wash his feet.” On the day of his wedding, the groom was the embodiment of Lord Vishnu. The bride’s father committed this symbolic act, as a means of appealing to the goodness in the groom to take care of his daughter. Or, in this case, stepdaughter. Because Belle understood that her mother wasn’t going to be single, on paper at least, for very much longer.
“It’ll do him good.”
Belle leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“I’m not. I’m sorry your father is dead, but I have to believe that he’s in a better place. And that, God knows, he’s happier there.”
They stared at the non-blooming rose bushes, and at the other bench across from them.
“But I’m not sorry you’re happy. You deserve to be happy. Parents die, Belle. And it’s okay that they do. We live our lives for you but you can’t live your lives for us. Children are meant to go on. And if we’re good parents, we want you to. Even when it hurts.
“I’m glad you’ve found a man who makes
you happy, and if you want to live in another country then, well, you’ll have to get used to paying for airfare. Which I’m guessing he can well afford. And I know…I’ve been difficult. Like I said, I never was much of a mother. My own mother wasn’t to me, either, and I guess I never really learned how. But you’re learning all kinds of things that I never learned and I guess, if you had to leave Maine to do that, then it’s still a good thing. And,” she added, “if he loves you half as much as I do, a quarter as much, you’ll do alright.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“I love you, honey. I really do.”
“I love you, too.”
NINETY-SEVEN
The morning of Owen’s funeral dawned cool and clear, and by ten that morning it was almost hot. At least in the sun. Belle sat in the first row of chairs, a front liner in a phalanx of folding plastic that had been set up facing the grave. Next to her sat Ash. Her mother sat on the other side and, beside her, Frank. A couple of cousins whom Belle barely knew filled the rest of the row. Behind them sat the other mourners.
A hundred or so chairs total, about half of them filled. Funerals were serious business, and most of the people who’d paid their respects the afternoon before wouldn’t have felt comfortable, the Mainer phrase was honing in. She thought back to that long-ago gravestone of her youth: moved here when he was one. Died when he was a hundred and one. He was almost one of us. That gravestone was old, now, weathered near paper thin by the passage of years. But while the world around it had expanded, becoming more and more a tourist destination and less and less the province of locals, the old backbone remained.
Mainers kept their distance at times like these. It wasn’t disinterest, or apathy, but respect. You respected a person by ignoring them; no one wanted to be like Noah’s sons, coming upon him in the tent.
Let people do their grieving in private, her grandfather used to say. Let them come back to you strong. Don’t go poking around, seeing things about them they don’t want you to see. It made sense, really. In a town as poor as theirs had been, growing up, all people had to give each other was privacy.
The chance to control something, in a world gone out of control.
The minister droned on about life, death, and the resurrection.
Donna was wearing the same chiffon number as yesterday, Frank the same awful-smelling sportcoat. Ash was wearing a different, equally subdued suit and Belle was wearing something she hadn’t even known she’d owned: a black wool sheath dress that hit just below the knee and, over that, a raw silk coat. Also black. Quilted. Elegant.
Her hands rested in her lap, her ring winking in the light.
Everything smelled of sunshine and pine sap. She was reminded, forcibly, of those long-ago days when she’d waited for a magic door to appear. It didn’t seem right, somehow. Funerals should be bleak. Rain should be lashing them, as lowering clouds pressed down from above. There shouldn’t be birds chirping or, far off, the laughter of children.
Then again, that’s what Owen would have wanted. He never took himself all that seriously and, if he’d still been around, he’d rather have been playing with those children. He might not have been much of a parent, later on, but he’d still been alright when she was young. He’d still been more the person he’d been meant to be. Before life got in the way.
She caught a movement in the corner of her eye, and turned.
That man, from the viewing!
He was there, in the trees. He must have wanted to see his friend buried, but felt too awkward to join the family. Still, there were plenty of seats. And other people, who weren’t related. The dock master, for one. Belle had wanted to feel angry at him but, strangely, hadn’t been able to.
He was probably just as sad as Belle was, after his own fashion. He, after all, had to live with the burden of knowing that his anger had led to Owen’s hear failure. However indirectly.
Belle had seen him, felt a stirring of—something, and realized that she’d forgiven him.
Just like she’d forgiven her mother, the day before.
She watched the man move through the trees. Hadn’t his words been the catalyst, that had started this whole process? That had led to her forgiving her mother, the dock master and—ultimately—herself? He’d known, somehow, just what to say.
No one else seemed to see him. They were staring straight forward, their eyes on the minister. Even Ash, who was normally observant, didn’t seem to notice that they weren’t alone. He sat with one arm casually around Belle’s shoulders, the other on his knee.
He—the man whose name she still didn’t know—shouldn’t be alone by himself. He should know that he was wanted. That she, at least, considered him a friend.
Excusing herself quietly to Ash, she slipped from the service and vanished into the small grove.
NINETY-EIGHT
Except she didn’t find him.
He’d been right there. Right there—waiting for her, or so she’d thought, initially. He must have seen her, coming toward him, and waited. Presumably to pay his respects. But…the grove was empty. Sunlight spotted the ground between the trees and that was all.
She took a few steps, shielding her eyes against the sun and peering toward the other side of the cemetery. Surely, even if he’d beat a hasty retreat, she should still be able to see him. Except all she saw were gravestones and, far in the distance, another couple kneeling down to place a potted plant. Neither of whom were the little man.
She heard a twig break and whirled around, expecting to see him.
But it was Billy Meyers.
She hadn’t caught sight of him earlier and had hoped against hope that he’d stay home. But of course Billy would never do that. Billy, who fancied himself such a paragon of virtue in every department. Even when he was screwing around with her best friend.
“Hello,” she said.
He was still wearing his uniform. He looked attractive in a compact, muscled kind of way. Like the human equivalent of a Staffordshire terrier. She’d thought him the most attractive boy in the world, once. But that had been before. Before…a lot of things.
“At least you’re dressed appropriately today,” he said. “More or less.”
Her father had just died. It was a miracle she was dressed at all. But she kept her mouth shut.
He shook his head. “Belle, you don’t belong with him.”
Her eyes widened fractionally.
“He’s—he’s not right for you. He’s foreign, and he’s strange, and he’s turning your head with his money. I can tell. Those shoes, that ring. That’s not you, Belle.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I know you. Better than he does.”
“That’s not true, Billy.”
“You should be with me, not him. I have a good job—a real job. And when I get out of the service, I’m going to medical school. I’m going to be a surgeon.”
“Congratulations.”
“I don’t—I would never expect you to do anything strange. Which I’m sure he does. Men like him always do, you know. They’ve grown up with money, so they think they can demand anything. Use people, however they want. But you’re better than that, Belle. I could give you better than that.”
“Why the sudden interest?” He hadn’t cared how she was spending her time, before.
“Because, after you left, I realized what I’d lost.”
Except that wasn’t quite right: he was older, although only by a couple of years. He’d left before she had, for college. He’d moved on from her a long time ago.
“And I wanted to make it up to you,” he continued, “but…by then you were gone.”
“You just want what another man has.”
“I’m a different person now, Belle. I’m better. And I want a chance to prove that to you.”
“I don’t think so.”
Belle started to turn, but Billy caught her elbow. “That’s it? You’re just going to walk away and—what? Go back with him? Let him buy you things and sleep with
him in return?”
She pulled her elbow back. “It’s not a transaction,” she said, facing him. “Yes, I admit: there’s an element of transactionality in every relationship. Which is, might I remind you, the basis of Valentine’s Day!” Her stare intensified into a glare. Billy’s own intensity was scaring her. She wanted very badly for him to leave her alone. “But you—you make it sound like I’m—like he’s—and at my father’s funeral!”
“Your father you left to die!”
“How dare you!”
“To run off with some sheikh—”
“He’s a prince—”
“And be his whore!”
Belle slapped him.
And then her ears were ringing as she found herself face down on the ground, her mouth full of last year’s leaves. Billy had hit her, and hard. With difficulty, she rose to her knees and then sat down. She wasn’t sure that she could stand, yet. She touched her jaw, and winced.
She looked up at Billy.
He glared down at her, impassive.
No, not impassive. He wasn’t impervious to her pain; he was gloating. Seeing the dawning realization in her eyes, he grinned.
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I love it when you cry. It makes you look like the cheap whore that you are.”
“What—what?”
“I thought I could save you, but—”
Billy spun as a hand shot out and, grabbing him by the lapels, pulled him forward. Then his head snapped back as a fist connected with his jaw. “Who’s the whore, now?” Ash growled. “You want a little slap and tickle? I’ll show you slap and tickle!”
Billy wailed. He actually wailed in shock and surprise.
“Oh,” Ash asked. “Don’t like that? I thought big, rough men like you preferred to pick on men their own size. Not women you outweigh by seven stone.”
Billy shook his head furiously from side to side. “I just—she’s my ex-girlfriend and I—”
Ash turned to Belle, still holding Billy’s lapels. “Wait—you dated this pig?”