Putting Makeup on Dead People

by Jen Violi

  Now, with a tiny grin, I say to myself, just loud enough for me to hear, “Donna is a mortician who deals with many bodies.”

  I’m chewing on a piece of garlicky bread stick, sitting between Patty and Liz at our chipped corner cafeteria table in the unusually quiet cafeteria. The girls’ and boys’ basketball teams are out at the post-funeral luncheon Lila’s family is hosting at St. Charles’s. And everyone here seems to be acting like they’re still at Brighton Brothers—talking softly and looking somber—which works for me, since I’m also imagining myself in a funeral home.

  Except I’m putting just the right blusher on a dead someone’s cheeks, or solemnly greeting a family in mourning. I see my long brown hair twirled in a bun, like Dr. Laughlin’s, our principal, and wearing Mom’s pearls—if she’ll let me borrow them—and probably some sensible pumps; I just don’t think hiking boots are the look for me. I’m standing next to filmy beige drapes and nodding and holding out a box of Kleenex. The thought of it is comforting, familiar.

  I know the route down the hallway, past the ladies’ room, with two wingback pink upholstered chairs with a small cream-colored table between them, like a place where some elegant couple might sit down to tea. Past the water fountains, to the little reception room where some of them serve coffee and pastries—like the one where we had Grammy’s viewing. I’d like to work in a funeral home with pastries, maybe pizzelles like Aunt Irene makes from Nonna’s recipe. I do know my way around a funeral home.

  I almost jump when I hear Patty’s sharp voice say, “Charlie, what is that crap?”

  I glance over at Charlie McIntyre and his lunch. Most of us are eating chicken fingers and bread sticks, but Charlie has something in a Tupperware container that looks like it has tiny noodles and raisins and green stuff in it, and which I can’t identify to save my life.

  Charlie is sitting next to Jim, Becky’s boyfriend. Sometimes I wonder if Charlie is friends with Jim for the same reasons I’m friends with Becky. They don’t seem to have much in common, but they grew up next door to each other, and Jim’s just as sweet as Becky. Anyway, Charlie’s tall and skinny with curly black hair that never wants to all go in one direction, and he wears these great dark-framed glasses that I think make him look like the guy who played Ichabod Crane in that movie. Charlie doesn’t talk very much at all, which I find soothing. At the moment, he’s got his eyes on a book called Planting an Herb Garden and is not paying attention to anyone.

  “Hello. Charlie, what is that crap?” Patty repeats.

  The sound of her voice pierces the cafeteria air, and even hook-nosed Dave Davis, the president of the math team, turns to look, which is a pretty big deal since the math team isn’t interested in much that doesn’t compute. Charlie also glances up, and I see a piece of noodle on his lower lip. He notices it too, and licks it into his mouth. “You mean my lunch?”

  “Whatever,” Patty says more softly to Charlie, and glares at Dave until he turns away. “That stuff in the container.”

  “It’s quinoa salad.” I don’t know what quinoa is, but I like how it sounds—Keen Wah. Neat. I also like that Charlie answers in a way that is perfectly calm and not defensive, which is how I’d respond if Patty asked me that question, at least in my head.

  “His parents are hippies,” Jim says, which sounds a bit like, Oh, well, Charlie was raised by wolves, so, you know, he poops in the forest and stuff.

  “So what does that mean?” Becky asks.

  “Socks with sandals, you know, that kind of stuff.” Jim laughs.

  “And they have lots of sex and don’t take showers,” Patty says, and makes a face that crunches up all of her facial features, and which I think more accurately reflects her personality. “Gross,” she says, which I also find to fit her M.O.

  Through all of this, Charlie remains silent, serenely eating his salad as everyone speculates about his parents’ sex life and personal hygiene. Nothing seems to ruffle Charlie or keep him from doing what he believes in, like circulating a petition in the fall to get the Home Ec teachers to add composting training to the curriculum, which surprisingly worked. But he’s never pushy, like Tami Ritter, who practically shoves right-to-life brochures into our hands twice a year and will corner anyone by the tampon machine in the girls’ bathroom to go into great detail about God’s will.

  Charlie, however, just does his thing and lets other people do theirs. Other people’s goals at Woodmont seem about as interesting as drainage systems to me, but I have to admit I’m curious to see what Charlie will, as Uncle Lou might say, “make out of himself.” Now he shrugs at Patty and looks back down at his book.

  “You know,” Liz says, pointing a bread stick at Jim, “I read that Americans shower too much anyway. It’s not good for our skin. And nothing’s wrong with lots of sex.”

  “As long as you’re married,” Becky says quickly, and glances at Jim.

  Liz smiles. “I’m not Christian, so I don’t have to follow that rule.”

  “What are you?” Becky must not realize that people other than Christians attend Woodmont, because she looks awfully shocked.

  “I was thinking of becoming a Pagan.”

  Jim leans in with his elbows propped on the table. “What does that mean?” His eyes are so big that I wonder if he’s thinking of converting.

  Patty rolls her eyes. “It means she’s part of some weird devil cult.”

  “Oh, grow up.” Liz dips her bread stick into a small container she’s filled with mustard, rather than the pizza sauce the rest of us are using. “Everyone knows that the Christians just made up the devil stuff so their religion would be the most popular. It was like high school even in the Middle Ages.”

  Charlie laughs.

  I’ve always wondered how much stuff Christians made up, because Bible stories sound an awful lot like fairy tales to me. At the same time, I heard all through grade-school religion classes that it’s all true, even Communion turning into Jesus’ body and blood. Which honestly, I have a little trouble visualizing without special effects and a really messy altar cloth.

  “Well, Donna, you really invite some interesting people to the lunch table,” Patty says, with another scrunched-up face in Liz’s direction.

  Usually I ignore Patty or act like I agree with her; I just don’t care enough to argue. But for the first time since I can remember, something matters—someone matters. I turn to Patty and look her straight in the face. I pretend Liz is contagious, that sitting next to her means I’ve caught the fearless-and-confident virus, and I shrug. “You are pretty interesting,” I say to Liz, and smile.

  “Likewise,” Liz says.

  Patty huffs. “Whatever.”

  Becky, whose eyes are still a little red from crying this morning, says, “I don’t think we should be fighting today. It’s not respectful. To Lila.”

  “No one’s fighting, Becky.” Patty folds her arms. “And it’s not like we really knew her.”

  “We went to school with her,” Charlie says. “And it makes you think. It makes me think about my grandfather. And I’m guessing it might make Donna think about her dad. And I think you know Donna. So maybe you could be respectful to her.”

  “Sorry, Donna. And thank you, Hall Monitor Charlie.” Patty stands up. “I’m going to finish my physics homework before class. Becky, come help me.”

  Becky, who hasn’t been comfortable since sex and Christians came up, and certainly must not be relaxed now, jumps to her feet and follows Patty. “Come on, Jim,” she says.

  “I thought we all weren’t doing our homework anymore.” Clearly Jim was not uncomfortable, and he’s right: it seems like no one’s been taking class seriously anymore, like this low-grade fever is circulating among seniors, one that can only be cooled by the sweet balm of graduation. “Remember we have senioritis?”

  “Consider yourself temporarily cured,” Patty says slowly through her teeth. “And right now, I’m going to do my physics homework.”

  Becky pats Jim on the arm. “You can be
a slacker later, Jimmy.”

  Jim reluctantly picks up his tray and walks away.

  I feel like my whole face must be the reddest it’s ever been, and I glance down at my tray. I notice that Charlie is watching me. “I hope I didn’t say something wrong,” he says.

  “You didn’t.” I want to say more, to say how thoughtful he was, how I don’t mind anyone reminding Patty to be a human being, that I think his lips must be really soft, but I can’t get out any more words.

  “Okay.” He smiles a little and points to his Tupperware container. “Want to try some?”

  My stomach does a little flip. I feel something, but it’s not hunger. “No.” I worry that I answered too fast and sounded rude. “But thank you. I like the name of it.”

  “It’s spelled with a Q.” He writes out a word on the back of his herb book, right there on the cover, and turns it to face me. Q-U-I-N-O-A.

  “That’s even better. It’s like Spanish.”

  “It is Spanish. The grain of the Incas.”

  “Nice,” Liz says. “And thanks,” she says to me. “We made a pretty good team today.”

  “I guess so.” I look again at the word on Charlie’s book, and I touch it. It’s different, and I think it’s beautiful.

  After school, when I close my locker and turn around, Liz is standing there. She’s wearing big movie star sunglasses and says, “Want a ride home? I think we live pretty close.”

  “Riding the bus happens to be one of my least favorite things.”

  “Then you’re in luck.”

  In the parking lot, the sun shines so bright on my face that I decide to take off my sweater and stuff it into my backpack. The air feels cool through my long-sleeved cotton shirt, and I’m noticing springtime, which used to be my favorite season. I’d rejoice at the end of winter—a miserable time in Dayton, usually with a bunch of snow, a lot of wet icy rain, and gray day after gray day. But then, all of a sudden, everything would change, like it’s changing now. The tulips are popping up out of the ground all crisp and sure and bright, and I can smell the ground getting warmer.

  And springtime means that it’s almost my birthday, which used to mean Dad waking me up singing Happy Birthday at the top of his lungs and sticking candles in my scrambled eggs because it was funny. Now for my birthday, Mom and I stick flowers in the dirt in front of Dad’s gravestone, which isn’t actually funny at all. I used to love springtime, to feel it on the inside. Since Dad died, it’s more like watching a movie full of lush gardens while I’m sitting in the dark theater with the trampled bodies of Sour Patch Kids lying in flat gummy destruction below me on a dirty floor.

  A week from today, it’ll be April second, and I’ll be eighteen. I was due to be born on April first, but Dad always said I waited a day because I’m no fool. Sometimes I wonder.

  Liz stops us at a Jeep the color of metallic chocolate. Of course she has a car this cool. “Wow,” I say.

  “I’m the only child, and my dad likes to give big presents—you know how they do.”

  I don’t say anything. I hate when this happens. I should be used to it by now. I should just say yes, I know, just agree so no one feels awkward. But the truth is I don’t know how dads give big presents to their car-driving daughters. I doubt Dad would have gotten me a Jeep, but I’m never going to find out.

  “I’m sorry. Shit. I didn’t even. Shit.” Liz tugs at the fringe on her enormous purple purse.

  “It’s okay,” I say. Usually when this happens, I don’t care how it turns out. I don’t care how the other person feels, but I’ve never met anyone like Liz, and I don’t want to mess this up. Liz feels like possibility, like the door to the magic kingdom, like, well, springtime.

  She asks softly, “You still want a ride home?”

  “Yes.” I reach out and touch her arm, and it feels strange to touch someone not in my family. “Really, it’s fine.”

  “Okay? Okay. Then climb on in.” She opens my door for me and shuts it once I get in. Her car smells like cinnamon.

  On the way out of the parking lot, she smiles and says, “Let’s roll the windows down.”

  I nod, and we roll the windows down. All the way. The air makes my face tingle, and I wonder if anyone will see me riding in Liz’s chocolate Jeep. On the dashboard, a little statue of a fat happy man bounces up and down on a suction cup, and I laugh at him.

  “That’s my Buddha,” Liz says. “He likes to go for rides.”

  “Didn’t he start a religion?”

  “If that’s not a ride, I don’t know what is.”

  I laugh and nod my head as the happy Buddha bounces.

  It turns out Liz does live pretty close to me. Her family’s house is in Oakwood, and mine’s just over the line in Kettering. I’m guessing Liz’s house is probably as cool as her car. Oakwood holds the distinction of being Dayton’s fancy suburb, with its own fancy supermarket and fancy shops where middle-aged women buy sequined walking outfits with their Gold American Express cards. Some parts of Kettering are fancy, but my part’s pretty normal suburban land. We live on Sherwood, which always makes me think that more exciting things should be happening there, involving forested escapades and surprise attacks from trees, but the most interesting thing at the moment is Mr. Grant’s new cherry-red riding lawn mower. Although, given the big smile on his face last weekend when he broke out his new ride, I guess that purchase did make him merrier than the average man.

  As we pull onto Sherwood, Liz says, “Thanks a lot for today. I’ve actually been a little lonely since we moved.”

  “No problem.” It feels so easy to be with her, and there are so many questions I want to ask, like, How can I one day be as cool as you are? Before I can stop myself, I ask a different one, “You want to come over?” And then I immediately regret this offer. What would someone like Liz do at my house? Watch Mom do craft projects or see how much black makeup Linnie can put on her face? I can’t remember the last time I had someone come over. Maybe Becky in the eighth grade? I don’t even know what people do at each other’s houses anymore, so I’m not sure how to do it right.

  Then a thought crosses my mind. Maybe she wants to hang out with me. Maybe she’s new in town and wants a friend, and maybe there’s not a right way to do it.

  “Can I?” Liz asks, and by the brightness in her eyes and voice, I know she means it, and otherwise I’ll be spending all of Friday night watching boring television with B, who’s home from college this week on spring break, or the incomprehensible Linnie, who plans to secretly dye her hair blue this evening. I’m not sure how long it will be a secret from Mom, but that’s Linnie’s problem.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. I point to my house, where Mom’s in the front yard, holding a shovel and wearing a rolled-up bandana to restrain her blond curls. “That’s it. Um, my mom isn’t used to me having friends stop by, so I’m not sure what she’ll think.”

  “I’m not worried.” I’m pretty sure Liz doesn’t worry about anything. What she doesn’t know is that she’s about to meet the Wonder Woman of worrying, someone who worries about everything from dynamite to dust bunnies.

  Worrying may be the one thing Mom and I have in common, and mostly I worry that someone else in my family will die one day. I’m not so much concerned about the dust bunnies. So, otherwise, I’m not sure how we’re related. When we’re out and people don’t know she’s my mother, I like to joke that the Gypsies brought me. She looks more like, say, Heidi from the Alps, and I look more like, well, like Dad. Long brown hair, dark brown eyes, nose a little bigger than I’d like. And it’s not just looks. Dad was the one who got me, while Mom doesn’t seem to understand anything I do. Mom likes ketchup, and I like Frank’s RedHot sauce. I like metaphors; she likes the metric system.

  When Mom sees us pull up and catches the glare from the shiny Jeep, she covers her eyes.

  As Liz and I step out onto the driveway, Liz says to Mom, “That’s quite an impressive begonia bed you’ve got there.”

 
Mom says, “Aren’t you going to ask for my phone number, too?” Then Mom and Liz both start laughing. Mom even makes that little wheezing noise she does when she finds something especially funny.

  “You must be Mrs. Parisi. I’m Liz.”

  As I watch Mom wipe her eyes and sigh, I start to feel like I’m on someone else’s date. I clear my throat. “Liz just started at Woodmont.”

  Mom cups her hand over her eyes like she’s looking off into the horizon, or staring at me and trying to figure out if it’s possible that I might have a social life. She turns to Liz. “In the middle of your senior year? Wow, that’s a big move.”

  “My parents finally retired, and Dad got an offer to be artistic director for the Dayton Ballet. Mom and Dad were both dancers with the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre.”

  “Really?” I can tell Mom’s impressed. “Well, come on in. Do you girls want a snack?”

  “Mom, we’re not twelve.”

  “Seventeen-year-olds also need to eat. Right, Liz? And I made lemon cookies from a new recipe I found in the Dayton Daily News.” I guess I have to cut Mom some slack; it must be as exciting for her as it is for me to have company.

  Liz follows behind Mom through the front door. “I will not turn down lemon cookies.”

  In the kitchen, Mom gets a plate from the cupboard and asks, “So how was today?”

  “We went to the funeral home in the morning,” Liz says, “for Lila Cardoza.”

  Looking past Mom, out the kitchen window, I think of Liz hugging Lila’s mom, and I think of Mom greeting everyone at Dad’s viewing.

  Liz looks from Mom to me, but maybe Mom’s thinking about Dad too, because she doesn’t say anything either. Mom uses the spatula to lift cookies off the cooling rack, and sets them on the plate. I can hear each cookie sliding off.

  “It was sad,” Liz says.

  “I’m sure,” Mom says, and turns around to bring the plate to the table. Her eyes seem hazy and vacant.

  It’s quiet in the kitchen, like we’re all back at the funeral home, and everything sounds hushed and far away, like when my ears are underwater at the pool.