Dorothy on the Rocks

by Barbara Suter

  “Hello,” he answers.

  “Spider? It’s Maggie.”

  “How’re you doing?”

  “Not great. You told me to call. I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Thanks. What’s going on? Did you get some sleep?”

  “A little,” I say. “I’ve already been through a day and a half and it’s only one o’clock.”

  “I see,” Spider says.

  “Jack’s funeral is today at four. I can’t decide whether to go or not. I’m not very familiar with Queens. I wouldn’t even know how to get there.”

  “The subway goes to Queens. Or take a cab.”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  “Look, I’ve got to run. I’m working an early shift. Maggie, try not to drink. That will only make everything worse.”

  “I’m gonna try.”

  “Good. It won’t bring Jack back and it won’t make you feel better.”

  “I had some rice pudding. That sort of helped.” I don’t tell Spider about the earlier part of my day. Or the beer I just took out of my refrigerator.

  “Good,” Spider says. “Lay off the scotch and stick to rice pudding. That’s an excellent plan. Call me tomorrow.”

  “Sure, okay.” We hang up. There’s something comforting about Spider wanting me to call him tomorrow. I bet he figures that if I say I’ll call him, I won’t get drunk and kill myself, and, who knows, maybe he’s right. And maybe tomorrow I won’t get drunk, but today all bets are already off so I finish the beer.

  “I’ll think about it tomorrow,” I say aloud in my best Scarlett O’Hara imitation. “Because tomorrow is another day.”

  The phone rings and I pick it up. It’s Patty.

  “Where have you been?” she blurts out. “I’ve been worried about you. I had a dream that you were in a boat and it started to sink. Isn’t that crazy? Anyway, I wanted to make sure you weren’t treading water somewhere, waiting for me to rescue you.” Then she laughs. And I laugh too. And then I cry. Big loud sobs right into the phone.

  “Maggie, what’s wrong?” she asks.

  “You know that young guy I was seeing?” I say.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “What?” Patty asks incredulously.

  “Dead,” I say. “Died of an aneurysm three days ago. I was at a monastery in the mountains, and when I got back there was a message from a friend of his asking me to call him, and when I did, he told me Jack was dead. The funeral is today at four in Queens. I don’t know whether or not to go. Oh, my God, Patty, I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’m on my way,” she says without a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll be there in half an hour and we’ll figure it out. Go in the bathroom and rinse your face with warm water and then sit on the couch and wait for me. Don’t think about anything until I get there. All right?”

  “All right,” I say in a very small, very fragile voice. “Thanks, Patty.”

  But she is already off the phone and out the door. Help is on the way. I go to the bathroom, like Patty told me, and wash my face with warm water, get another beer out of the fridge, and then I sit on the couch and wait. I think about nothing. I take one breath after another, between sips of beer, like I learned at the retreat. Less than half an hour later my buzzer rings. I get up and talk into the intercom.

  “It’s Patty,” she says back. I buzz her in the building and then open my front door. Mr. Ed runs out into the hall and looks through the stair railing with his tail wagging. I hear Patty making her way up the four flights of stairs.

  “Mags, honey,” she calls.

  “I’m here,” I say looking over the railing. And there she is, my dear friend Patty. She is carrying some pink tulips wrapped in paper.

  “I’m so sorry, my friend,” she says, handing me the flowers. A new round of tears pops out of my eyes.

  Patty puts her arms around me and rocks me gently. “I knew you were in need of help in some way. I just knew it,” she says. “I was so worried.”

  We go into the apartment. I hunt under the sink for something to put the flowers in. “Let me do that,” Patty says. I sit down on the couch and let her fuss with the flowers. “I’m going to put some water on for tea.” Then she comes over and sits next to me.

  “Tell me about it,” Patty says, taking my hand. “Tell me everything.”

  And the words come pouring out. I tell her how Jack came into my life and how he changed it and how wonderful he was and how unfair I was to him and how I sent him away and how he came back and how I sent him away again because I was so afraid of how good it felt and couldn’t let myself trust it and how I left him a message when I was in West Virginia asking for his forgiveness and telling him I loved him and then the call from Bob about Jack being dead and then finding out Jack was seeing his old girlfriend again and that’s who he was with when he died and how I’ve been drinking and smoking again after I tried to quit and how I ended up in the underbrush with Todd in the park having sex and how disgusting that was and that the funeral is at four o’clock and I have no idea how to get to Queens or even if I should go because I don’t know anyone and I don’t want to see the girlfriend but I do wonder how Jack’s dad is doing because Jack told me he was suicidal when his wife left so I can imagine what he is feeling now and I’m curious if Jack’s mother will show up for the funeral with her saxophone-playing boyfriend from Las Vegas. It all comes pouring out, nonstop, in one breath.

  Then the teakettle whistles and Patty gets up to pour the water. “Let’s let it steep,” she says, sitting back down. “And let’s figure out how we’re going to get to Queens.”

  “You’ll go with me?” I ask, dabbing my eyes.

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for the world. It’s sounds better than the last season of Dynasty. I’m going to call my cousin. She lives in Queens and will be able to tell us exactly how to get to the funeral home. You go change into something appropriate, and I’ll get the directions.”

  I go in the bedroom and look through my closet. I have only one black dress without sequins, and even that seems dressy for a four o’clock funeral, so I put on a pair of black slacks, a pair of strap sandals, and beige silk jacket. Simple yet sophisticated. My eyes are blotchy and my skin looks like I’m about to break out in chicken pox, and the scotch and beer are forming thunderclouds in my head. I need aspirin.

  “I have to put on some makeup,” I say to Patty on my way to the bathroom.

  “Well, hurry. Angie says to take the number 7 train to Wood-side Avenue and get a taxi from there. It’s not too far, but it’s too far to walk. It’s almost three. We need to hustle.”

  I do a quick makeover, but it doesn’t help. I’ll keep my sunglasses on, which I have to do anyway because of my scratched cornea. I’m sure I won’t be the only person there with puffy eyes. I pop three aspirin, put a pack of breath mints in my pocket, and figure I’m good to go.

  Patty and I take the train to Times Square and then transfer to the number 7. We make it to the Woodside stop by five to four. We hail a cab and get to Green Lawns Funeral Home ten minutes later. The service is starting as we walk in. Folding chairs and flower arrangements line the walls, and in the front of the room is the casket and it’s open. It never crossed my mind that the coffin would be open. I can see Jack’s head resting on a pillow, his hands folded on his midsection. I’m about thirty feet away, which is more than close enough. I freeze. Patty grabs my hand and leads me to the back row where there are two empty chairs.

  The officiating minister is offering a prayer for Jack and for Jack’s family and friends. Then there is sound from the back of the room like someone dropping a bag of coins. Everyone turns around to see a tall woman with jet-black hair, on her knees, trying to gather the nickels and dimes and lipsticks and keys and put them back in her handbag. A fellow wearing a sharkskin suit and cowboy boots is helping her. They are both deeply tanned. The minister pauses in the middle of the prayer to wait for the woman and her
helper.

  “I think that’s the mother and her boyfriend from Las Vegas,” I whisper to Patty.

  “Oh, I’m sure of it,” she whispers back.

  Mama Rose finally manages to get everything back in her bag, and she and the lounge lizard make their way to the second row of seats. Someone moves over and motions for them to sit down. Mama keeps her head down, not once looking at the coffin; the boyfriend puts his arm around her shoulders and whispers in her ear. Then I notice the man in the front row aisle seat. I can just see his profile. He never once turns around to see the woman who entered in a commotion. His eyes remain fixed on the young man in the coffin. It’s Jack’s father—the same profile, same broad shoulders, same curly brown hair but with flecks of gray. When he senses that Mama is settled, he nods to the minister to continue.

  “God giveth and God taketh away,” the man of the cloth says. “His purpose is a mystery and his means sometimes painful, but his power and his glory are unquestionable.”

  I always find it hard to listen to this type of rhetoric, but I keep my eyes down and my tongue silent.

  “In every season there is a time and in every death there is a birth,” he goes on in solemn oval tones. “Let us be reborn here today in the presence of God Almighty, our heavenly Father, who keeps us all in his loving arms and who taught us to pray by saying . . .” Then the minister leads us all in the Lord’s Prayer. I fumble along as best I can. It’s not a prayer I say easily. Patty’s head is down and her eyes are closed as she recites the words. I keep my eyes on Jack’s father. His head is bowed, but his lips are still. The broad shoulders slump and his fingers fidget with impatience. This is a man holding on—barely holding on. The prayer ends and the minister moves to the side. A tall young man about Jack’s age approaches the front of the room. He is holding a few pages of typewritten text. His hands are shaking as he places them on the podium.

  “My name is Bob McNabb,” he begins. Of course, I think, Jack’s friend. “Jack Eremus and I met when we were in sixth grade and have been best friends ever since. He was the best man at my wedding six months ago.” Bob’s voice breaks. A woman in the front row sobs loudly. I’m sure it is Bob’s wife. A slight blonde woman sits next to her. I have a feeling it’s Sheryl. The two of them sit close together, shoulders touching. Jack’s mother reaches forward and puts a hand on Sheryl’s shoulder. Sheryl turns and looks at her. Jack’s mother cups Sheryl’s face in her hand. These relationships are deep and go back a long way. Jack’s father doesn’t move. He is by himself on the other side of the aisle. No one reaches out to him.

  Bob recovers his voice and continues the eulogy. When he finishes, he walks over to the coffin, crosses himself, and kneels briefly. Then he rises, touches Jack’s hands for a moment, and returns to his seat. His wife kisses him and puts her arm around his shoulders. Bob shudders. A stocky woman with dyed platinum hair gets up and sings “Amazing Grace” in a lovely alto voice. At the end of the song she introduces herself as Jack’s Aunt Gladys. She thanks us all for coming and invites us to her home to share memories of Jack and partake of refreshments. The actual interment will take place tomorrow morning at eleven at the Calvary Cemetery. The minister offers a final benediction. Piped-in music plays, and people get up to mingle for a few minutes, offer kind words, and then take their leave. Jack’s father stands and shakes hands and accepts condolences.

  Mama Rose rises from her seat and tentatively approaches the casket. Her boyfriend steadies her with his arm tightly wrapped around her waist. She falls to her knees on the prayer rail next to the coffin and shakes with emotion. She reaches out and strokes Jack’s face. Tears roll down my face.

  “Maggie, are you all right?” Patty asks. I nod and smile at her. We are still seated in the back row.

  “It’s just so sad,” I say.

  “I know,” she says, and pats my hand. “Look, I have to find a ladies’ room. Do you want to come with me?”

  “No, I’ll wait here,” I say. Patty leaves through a side door in search of the restrooms. Jack’s mother is still kneeling by the coffin, obviously struggling to maintain a grip but losing the battle. Her shoulders shake convulsively. The boyfriend strokes her hair and looks completely useless. Then suddenly Jack’s father is standing beside her. He extends his hand and she takes it. He gently helps her to her feet. The boyfriend has the good sense to step aside and disappear into the crowd. The father kisses Mama Rose on the cheek and they embrace for a long moment. The shaking stops and she seems to find her spine. Then the father gently releases her and turns to leave. He walks down the aisle. I see his full face now. He looks familiar and not just because he resembles Jack. Then I notice the limp. His knee appears to be stiff; he walks as if he is wearing an artificial leg. Oh my God! I take a quick breath and my heart skips the next beat. Jack’s father is the one-legged man who sat across from me at the monastery, the man who sat with such serenity and stillness. As he passes me, I bow my head in acknowledgment and heartfelt sympathy. He doesn’t see me. His eyes are fixed on some distant spot. He is willing himself to get from one moment to the next, one step at a time, and obviously trying to think about nothing.

  “Excuse me,” someone says. I look to my left. It’s Bob. “Are you Maggie, by any chance?” he asks.

  “Yes, I am,” I answer. “What a lovely eulogy. I can tell you loved Jack very much.”

  “I did,” Bob says. “He was my best friend.” I stand up and we hug.

  “Thank you for letting me know,” I say after a moment. “It helps to be here.”

  “Are you going to Gladys’s house?” he asks.

  “I don’t think so. I feel awkward. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Bob says. “Jack was very conflicted about . . .” He doesn’t finish.

  “About the women in his life,” I offer.

  “I think he didn’t know how to deal with his feelings. When his mother left, he never got over it. It made it hard for him.”

  “I’m glad she came today,” I say, looking across the room to where she is standing. Aunt Gladys is now offering her comfort, and it occurs to me Gladys is her sister.

  “Well,” Bob says. “Better late than never.”

  Then Patty is at my side, back from the ladies’ room. I introduce her to Bob and she offers her sympathy and Bob excuses himself to rejoin his wife. I notice Sheryl is now standing with Gladys and Jack’s mother. The lounge lizard boyfriend is nowhere to be seen. Most likely he’s out front, smoking a cigarette. Not a bad idea, I think. I look to the front of the room. For the moment no one is near the coffin. This is my chance.

  “I’ll only be a minute,” I say to Patty.

  “Take your time,” she says.

  I walk up the side aisle and approach the coffin slowly. Jack is wearing a pin-striped suit, a pale blue shirt, and gray tie. I never saw him wear a suit. I wonder if this is even his. Of course it is, but he looks so out of place in it. But not as out of place in the suit as he looks out of place in the coffin. Life out of order. I kneel down on the prayer rail and bow my head. The tattoo that I saw on Jack’s shoulder the first night we were together turned out to be the Citipati, as he told me. Tibetan. Two dancing skeletons, the Lords of the Cemetery. Did he know? Did Jack sense he was in jeopardy? Is that why he tattooed the macabre duo on his shoulder? The thought gives me a chill.

  “Happy trails, my friend,” I say as I reach out and place my hand on Jack’s. I can’t believe I’m quoting Roy Rogers, but it was the first thing that came to mind, and it’s better than thinking about the eeriness of the skeletons. I stay like that with Jack for a few more moments and then leave. I don’t look left or right as I move to the back of the room in search of Patty. I don’t want to catch anyone’s eye. I don’t want to speak to anyone. I just want to get out of this funeral home as anonymously as I arrived.

  When we get outside, Patty says she’s hungry as hell and needs fuel. I need something too, but it’s not food. I’d prefer something stiff and on the rocks. A
n older gentleman smoking a cigar directs us to Eats & Drinks a few blocks away. And just then the blonde, fragile-looking girl, who I’m positive is Sheryl, comes out of the funeral home with Bob’s wife. When they see Patty and me they stop and whisper to each other. Then Sheryl comes toward me.

  “You’re Maggie, aren’t you?” she asks.

  “Yes, and I guess you’re Sheryl,” I say.

  She nods and we stand like that in a kind of stalemate for a minute, not wanting to acknowledge each other and yet feeling some need to connect. Finally Patty extends her hand to Sheryl and tells her how sorry she is. Sheryl takes Patty’s hand, but she keeps looking at me and I keep looking at her.

  “You were with Jack when he died, weren’t you?” I say.

  “Yes,” she says, tears forming in her eyes. A part of me wants to lunge at her and shake her and ask her why the hell she didn’t save him? Why the hell she didn’t give him CPR or mouth to mouth, but I don’t. Because I can see in her eyes that she has been asking herself those same questions ever since it happened, and by the strain on her face I know she hasn’t found any answers and probably never will.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, and she nods again, then turns and rejoins Bob’s wife by the front of the church.

  “Come on, let’s get something to eat,” Patty says, taking my arm and we walk in the direction of Eats & Drinks.

  We walk in silence. I can’t talk. I can barely breathe.

  We get to the diner and take a back booth.

  “I’ll have a BLT on toast,” Patty tells the waitress. “Coffee and an order of fries. Well done. I don’t like them underdone. If they’re underdone, I’ll send them back.” The waitress is standing on one foot then the other as she writes Patty’s order on her pad, then she turns to me.

  “Just coffee,” I say.

  “You’ve got to eat something,” Patty says. “Get a piece of pie or a turnover.”

  “No, coffee’s fine,” I say. “And a scotch on the rocks.”