Calamity

by J. T. Warren

  Upon his first viewing, Anthony wept not from pain but joy. Whoever had done the work had practically brought his daughter back to life. But then the skin turned to clay and the smile collapsed into a near frown. Chloe, doped-up and near to passing out at any point, chuckled. It was the type of laugh a drunk utters after one too many drinks when the bartender suggests maybe driving home is a bad idea. Better yet, it was the kind of offhanded laugh someone offered to a particularly unfunny joke. You think that’s my daughter, her chuckle said, well, you must be on crack then.

  Chloe turned away from her only daughter and collapsed into one of the cushioned armchairs the funeral director had put out for each of the surviving family members. Her sister Stephanie went to her side and cooed empty assurances that everything would be okay, everything would work out, everything happened for a reason.

  Only Delaney’s hair was the same as when she lived. Someone had spent a while cleaning and styling her hair to resemble the do she had in her school photo. That hair style had cost almost ninety dollars, but it had made her smile so large because she had been so damn pretty. Now, however, the hairstyle looked overdone, as if she had gotten too primped up for her own funeral.

  Even now, as the second showing began and people entered the room of chairs and depressing recorded organ music, Stephanie was sitting next to Chloe, rubbing her hand and repeating the mantra: Everything will be okay. Everything happens for a reason.

  Had he any energy, Anthony would have spun on her and shouted that her little empty phrases amounted to nothing but self-assuring bullshit. Nothing happened for a reason. God had no plan. What god, after all, would kill a wonderful young woman like Delaney? What god would deem it acceptable for someone to drop a bowling ball onto her car and have her entire face crushed? Everything would not be okay, not tomorrow, not next week, not fucking ever.

  People didn’t talk at wakes; they whispered. For the first viewing, Anthony had stood at the doorway to greet whoever might show up, but that had grown quickly tiring. It wasn’t the standing or even the incessant hugging and responses of thanks for coming that tired him out, but it was the realization that after he hugged and thanked these people they were going to step up to Delaney’s open casket, maybe use the kneeler, and offer some silent words or prayers. Every person who entered was going to get a chance to be witness to the corpse that used to be a fun-loving, beautiful teenage girl. Anthony felt the emotions of each person as he or she passed from him to the casket and the weight of those emotions finally sent him to one of the cushioned armchairs, which placed him front row center for the show in which the main character simply lay still, not breathing, dead.

  This time around, Anthony would greet the people after they offered that mental prayer or grace as they proceeded toward the back of the room to sit in folding chairs and wait to see if this would be one of those wakes where a priest said a prayer and gave a brief eulogy. Anthony had told Reverend Slade not to say anything at the wake, told him, in fact, not to come. There would be enough religious ceremony to satisfy God on Thursday morning when Delaney’s casket rolled down the aisle Chloe had walked down once as an unmarried woman and then back out again, her arm wrapped around his.

  Tyler, who cried long and hard during the first viewing, sat next to him. He leaned into Anthony’s ear. “You mind if I go outside for a little while?” He tugged on his tie, unable to breathe, perhaps.

  Anthony nodded. He was watching a plump woman in black pants and black blazer use the edge of the coffin as support to stand up from the kneeler. What would happen if her weight was too much and the coffin tipped off its stand? How would people react? Chloe might not even notice.

  Finally up, and without overturning the coffin, the plump woman turned to face Anthony. It was Molly Feingold from Human Resources. Red splotches tinged her cheeks, whether from badly applied makeup or from the physical excursion needed to stand was unclear. She smiled one of those half smiles that were meant to convey happiness at seeing one person while simultaneously acknowledging that something really terrible had recently happened to that same person. Some people were masters at this expression; Molly Feingold was not.

  She started in with the standard sorry for your loss, it’s just so tragic and horrible and I’m sorry rigmarole, to which he nodded slowly, taking her chubby, cold hand and thanking her, and then she started talking about work and how busy it has been what with the bad economy and everything and how bad she felt for some people who were barely scraping by, how hard it must be. He nodded almost continuously like one of those bobble heads some people kept on their desk at work. Anthony was the Grieving Parent Bobble Head: It keeps bobbing through all your pointless gestures of sympathy, just like a real grieving parent would.

  After she walked past him, Anthony noticed that both Tyler and Brendan were gone. Tyler had probably taken his brother outside with him for some air. That was a good idea. He ought to have Stephanie drag Chloe outside, if, that was, she could carry her. Chloe had fallen asleep almost immediately after sitting down. No chuckles this time, just an occasional snore.

  The air in here had turned stale since the first showing three hours ago. It tasted like dry cereal. If there were windows, it was hard to tell because of the dark-colored drapes hanging everywhere on the walls. There might be no ventilation in here at all. It didn’t matter, anyway, right, because the only person staying in the room for a long time was already dead. Maybe the air wasn’t stale; maybe it was the odor of Delaney’s body infiltrating the air. Even embalmed and degutted or whatever the hell was done to dead people, there would still have to be some kind of aroma. There was no way to get rid of all traces. Her molded face might be disintegrated in minute pieces, floating off her face. Everyone could be breathing her in without realizing.

  A bald guy Anthony recognized but couldn’t name was squeezing his shoulder and expressing just how terribly sorry he was. Anthony returned to his bobble head ways and offered the stock thank you so much for coming response.

  “How’re those boys holding up?” the man asked. His pinstripe suit was a bit loose in the chest as though he had lost weight. Then Anthony had it—he was Greg Champ, who everyone called The Champ at work. He worked in Legal and was battling colon cancer.

  “They’re okay,” Anthony said. “Tyler’s been taking it pretty hard and Brendan, well, I don’t think he’s even grieved yet. How are you?”

  Greg shrugged. “Still here.”

  Greg’s response was probably so automatic when anyone inquired about his cancer and those horrible treatments he had to endure that his brain forgot to stop the words before they left his mouth. His face went slack. “I’m so sorry, Anthony.”

  But Anthony had shut him out. He was thinking about Brendan. While Tyler had shed tears over his lost sister, Brendan had simply sat through the entire first viewing with a blanched face and dry eyes. He didn’t have his composition book with him. He should have been writing, spilling his inner pain onto the safe pages inside a notebook if he was too afraid or unsure of himself to share those worries with his dad. Instead, Brendan just sat still, watching his sister’s dead body as if it might at any moment come to life. Now that would be a miracle, Lazarus and all that.

  The boy was in shock, of course. And understandably so. He was only twelve and while he knew what death was, he had never known it to touch so deeply. After the baby’s death, Anthony had tried very hard to shield the kids from it. There had been a wake, in this same funeral home, perhaps this same room, though he couldn’t remember, and a brief ceremony at the burial. Few people attended, but they hadn’t expected many anyway. An infant’s death, while tragic, wasn’t like the death of a sixteen-year-old. Dr. Carroll had recommended the service and the burial; closure, it was called. It had worked for the kids and mostly for Anthony, too. Chloe was a different story, of course.

  Brendan hadn’t cried for the baby, either, though he barely knew his youngest sibling. He had grown more focused and quieter. His grades had improved an
d he no longer forgot to put away his clothes or toys or put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. He matured. He might be a more serious pre-teen than average but that wasn’t a big deal. Was it? Everyone lost his or her innocence eventually. For some it came late, for others, early. Anthony lost his own father when he was nineteen and that had helped him focus on his collegiate studies and propel himself into the book-publishing world. It was the same with Brendan, that’s all—death was the catalyst that forced him to acknowledge his own mortality. You had to cut hay while the sun shined, after all, because it would be dark before you knew it.

  Delaney’s death would only make Brendan even more introverted. The poor boy would throw himself into his studies as Anthony had done in college. He’d turn out alright as long as Anthony kept checking on him. Though maybe not. Assuming Brendan would be fine could be a grievous mistake. It was always the quiet kids, those harboring all their emotions, who eventually shot up their schools. That was an overreaction, obviously, but Anthony didn’t want to turn to CNN one morning and see his son’s school photo on the screen next to the words ALLEGED SHOOTER.

  As it was, CNN was running on-going updates about the BOWLING BALL DEATH. It had been the top story for most news programs and cover page material for the local newspapers. The New York Times gave it top billing on the Local News page. All the reports, all the articles, they all said the same thing: Delaney Williams had been killed from a bowling ball dropped off an overpass. The police had no leads. Not for lack of trying. They had questioned Anthony and the boys, tried to question Chloe, and had, according to those reports, questioned everyone at the bowling alley. No one had seen a thing. “Something will turn up,” Sergeant Fratto said. “Someone was driving by, saw something. It’s only a matter of time before that person puts it together. Don’t give up.”

  Don’t give up. Ha.

  Greg was gone and someone else, one of Chloe’s friends, was offering her condolences. She wore a black and white cocktail dress that stopped well above her knees. If not for the overcoat that hung near her calves, she would have appeared to have wandered into the wrong place. She must be one of Chloe’s single friends. A wake was a good enough place to pick up men as any other, maybe better: she could cry and some guy could console her and that consoling could lead to a bedroom somewhere.

  He was retreating back in his own mind while still processing the continuous line of mourners when a tall man in a black suit with a Bible held in both hands stepped in front of him. He had blue eyes and sharp features and his hair was slicked back, matted heavy with gel.

  Then Anthony’s mind was lucid again, or as clear as it could be following a few days of endless crying, sleeping pills, and funeral planning. “What do you want?”

  “I am very, very sorry for your loss,” the man said.

  “Thanks.” He hoped his eyes conveyed his insincerity. What other reason could this man be here if not to use Delaney’s death as an opportunity to add more people to his flock of Jesus freaks? He had probably spotted the obituary in the paper and—

  The other guy, the short, stocky one with the loose hairs waving on his head and the He-Man shoulders: he had seen Delaney, even said, She’s very pretty. At the advice of the funeral director, Anthony had the newspaper insert a headshot of Delaney next to her obituary. Pure coincidence, God’s intervention according to them, had led these assholes here.

  “Where’s your partner, the one with the wrinkled suit?”

  “He’s not here, Anthony.”

  “Don’t say my name.”

  The man squatted in front of him. Anthony could kick him in the crotch with almost no effort. The dread Anthony had first discovered when staring into this man’s eyes did not return; instead, anger began to stir inside him. There was something off about this man, perhaps even something dangerous, but Anthony didn’t care. He was crashing Delaney’s wake.

  “God sometimes speaks to me.”

  What more proof was needed of the man’s instability: the really dangerous freaks always claimed a direct link with the man in the clouds.

  “He led me to your house. You live in a gated community and the guards would never let us in but last Saturday morning when we drove past on our way to a more accessible development, the gate was open and the guard was gone. It was a sign. We parked in the street and walked your community. We walked right to your house. God led us there.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  The man shook his head. His blue eyes were almost impossibly clear. “I don’t expect you to believe anything, not yet. Your mind is too cluttered with grief.”

  “Cluttered?” Anthony’s voice peaked to an unacceptable octave for a viewing and several heads turned. “My daughter is dead.”

  “God led me to you for a reason. This is the reason. You need Him.”

  Anthony laughed; he couldn’t help it. “That’s how He works, right? He punishes you, takes your kid away, and then says, come to me. I’ll make it all better. He’s a con artist.”

  The man’s face did not waver. “‘Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.’ Listen to Jesus and let Him empower you.”

  That sounded so familiar and then Anthony remembered. “Got those pamphlets memorized, I see.”

  “It’s the truth. I knew you would need His help because He led me to you. That’s all I can do. I am His messenger.”

  Anthony leaned forward, their faces only inches apart. “Message delivered. Now get the fuck out of here before this gets ugly.”

  “You have so much hate. He can help you. Tomorrow is Maundy Thursday. It is the day Jesus broke bread for the final time. It is the Last Supper. It could have been a time of despair, but it wasn’t, because Jesus knew He would rise again. He was empowered, and you can be empowered, too. You just have to give it a chance. You don’t have to believe, Anthony, you only have to be willing to believe. Tomorrow night. We want you to join us.”

  Somehow the man’s words calmed Anthony’s anger. While the man spoke and those blue eyes stayed focused on Anthony, the aggression that had been boiling up receded, leaving his limbs rubbery. If Jesus had existed and the Last Supper really happened, it would be perfectly apropos to join in the commemoration because Anthony was at his own last supper. When Delaney was put in the ground tomorrow, with her would be buried Anthony’s hope. The ultimate loss of innocence. Could a bunch of Bible worshippers actually give him back that hope?

  “We only want to help,” the man said. “He wants to help you, Anthony.”

  “I told you not to say my name,” Anthony said. He could have easily thrown his arms around this man and wept when only a moment ago he was preparing to fight him. He was trying to be tough, but he only wanted comfort. Dr. Carroll had warned about the emotional roller coaster that followed death, especially that of a child.

  “Just think about it and search your heart. Bring your family if you want or come alone. God will help you. He will empower you. Your family is not destroyed. You have a lovely wife and two wonderful sons.”

  “What about my sons?”

  “I read of them in the obituary.”

  “You saw them. Outside.” The ire flushed through him again.

  “They’re good boys.” The man’s smile betrayed something from his eyes. That smile revealed true intent, harm even.

  “Anthony,” Stephanie said with alarm in her voice, “is everything okay? Who is this man?”

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “I told you, he’s not—”

  “You son of a bitch,” Anthony said so evenly and with gravity that Stephanie backed away and even Mr. Blue Eyes blinked. The man’s partner, the short stocky guy with the wrinkled suit and the uneven gaze in his eyes, entered the viewing room, his arm draped over Brendan’s shoulders. A small smile teased at Brendan’s lips.

  That’s what broke the camel’s back, of course—that smile.

  Anthony stood and while the squatting man was trying to explain
that everything was okay and that there was no reason to be upset, he shoved the man and stormed right for the stocky guy. The guy was shorter than Anthony but a good thirty pounds heavier. He probably played football in high school whereas Anthony had played tennis. Even so, getting the drop on somebody always offered the advantage.

  Someone screamed, more of a startled gasp than a scream but it was enough to turn the stocky guy’s attention away from Brendan and toward Anthony. Had that woman not uttered anything, Anthony would have gotten the full advantage of a surprise attack, but as it was he knocked the man off his feet and into the wall. His head bounced off the wall, narrowly missing the white legs of an elderly woman who was next in line for the kneeler. She jumped out of the way and tripped on someone else. She crashed to the floor amid many startled shouts as Anthony grabbed the stocky guy’s black tie.

  This guy had been alone with his son saying who-only-knew-what nonsense. Maybe just Bible shit but maybe something worse. The hit against the wall had glazed the man’s eyes but behind that dazed expression pulsed something not right, something uneven, as he had originally labeled it. This guy had watched him surreptitiously while Delaney joked about no one liking his breakfast. This man had smiled real big, the grin of someone who reads the newspaper to count how many sinners were killed in a day’s daily murders, and said, Your daughter. She’s real pretty.

  “What were you doing with my son? Youcocksucker! What did you do to my daughter? What the fuck did you do to my Delaney?!”

  The screams pushed everyone back but not for long. Anthony’s fists pummeled the man’s face over and over until blood streaked his eyes and mouth and Anthony wasn’t sure if the blood was from the guy’s face or his own knuckles scraping the wall after each hit. Screaming near gibberish, Anthony wouldn’t relent until two people grabbed him by the arms, pulled him off the Bible-thumper and pinned him to the floor.