Putting Makeup on Dead People

by Jen Violi

  Liz licks her lips and runs her fingers through the fringe on her turquoise shawl. “Um, also, Donna and I have Spanish together. We are both muy bueno.”

  Something bright and lively in Liz’s voice pulls me back to the surface again, and Mom too. She laughs.

  And then it’s like Mom and Liz are new best friends, and I watch a little dumbfounded. I’m glad I have something good to eat—the perfectly round cookies are sweet and tart and crumbly—because I wouldn’t know what to do otherwise. Mom asks questions about the ballet, and Liz describes her dad in Swan Lake and the costumes and the lights and how her dad would pick her up when she was small and spin her like a ballerina.

  “My dad used to do that too.” Mom looks at the cookie she holds delicately in her fingers. At the moment, she seems fragile, like she’s a little girl, and it makes me nervous. She sets the cookie down and says shyly, “You know, I always wanted to be a ballerina.”

  Liz reaches over and touches Mom’s hand. “I bet you would have been a beautiful dancer.”

  My brain is on overload. This intimacy between my new friend and my mother. Mom talking about her dad, who I rarely hear about, other than that he was very athletic. Mom wanting to be a ballet dancer. Mom wanting something, period.

  “You never told me that,” I say, and it sounds angrier than I mean.

  “You hate ballet,” Mom says.

  “No I don’t.” Actually, I do, but I just met Liz, who happens to be the spawn of ballet people, and I’m not ready to alienate myself just yet.

  Mom points a finger at me. “When I took all of us to the ballet last November, you said, ‘I hate ballet. Why are you making us go?’” I guess Mom has decided that alienating me from Liz is an acceptable choice.

  Linnie passes through the kitchen. She’s wearing black-and-white-striped pajamas, and her dyed black hair hangs down to her waist. She has the same round perky kind of nose Mom has, but it doesn’t seem to fit with Linnie. “You did say that, and you were wearing that ugly silver jacket.” She looks at Liz.

  Liz brushes cookie crumbs off the corner of her mouth and smiles. “Hi, I’m Liz.”

  Linnie pours herself a tall glass of orange juice, drinks half of it, and fills the rest with ice cubes. “Hey.” She nods at Liz and walks out.

  “Charming,” I say.

  “I wish I had a sister,” Liz says, which makes no sense to me, given the example she just witnessed.

  “Donna’s got a brother too,” Mom says.

  Liz looks up, interested. “Really?”

  “Sorry, he’s taken,” Mom says.

  “But his girlfriend’s seriously lame,” I say. “So you might have a shot.”

  “Donna, Gwen’s very nice.” Which is Mom’s way of saying she might not totally love Gwen either, but employing something she calls tact.

  On cue, my six-foot-tall brother B comes up the stairs from the basement, where his bedroom used to be. Now it’s technically my room, but Mom made me move back in with Linnie for the week so he could stay here. He rubs his eyes and yawns. “I was dreaming about cookies.”

  B has the same brown hair that I have and that Linnie has when she’s not trying to look like a vampire, but it’s curly like Mom’s, and there’s no doubt that he’s her son.

  He’s got not only her nose but also her cheeks and the forehead shape and something like her narrow chin.

  When I was three and B—Brendan—was seven, he used to wear a yellow-and-black-striped shirt all the time, and I told him he looked just like a bumble bee.

  Mom said, “Yes, and, his name starts with the letter B.”

  So I said, “Then he’s just B to me.” And he has been ever since. I can’t help but smile when B walks in a room. Growing up, we spent a lot of time together—building forts in the dirt with twigs and rocks and leaves, and making up stories. Maybe mostly I followed him around, but he let me. When he left for college right after Dad died, I thought I might fall apart. He only went to the University of Dayton, and although it’s literally just ten minutes away, it feels like he’s been in another country. And especially since he started dating Gwen last year, I can’t help but feel like he’s not mine anymore.

  Now Mom gets up and pours B a glass of milk. She looks at Liz and smiles. “Apparently napping is part of the university curriculum. I haven’t taken a nap since I was four years old.”

  I laugh. “Does it count when you fall asleep in the living room chair while we’re watching movies?”

  Mom puts the glass in front of B and sits down again. “No.”

  “That’s more of an accidental nap,” Liz says, “so it doesn’t count the same.”

  “Exactly,” Mom says.

  “By the way,” I say to B, “this is my friend Liz.”

  B puts a whole cookie into his mouth and says, “Charmed, I’m sure,” amid a spray of lemony crumbs. Liz cracks up.

  I shake my head. “He’s also part Neanderthal.”

  Still with a mouthful of cookie, he says, “I’m hungry.” I am always amazed at how delightful my brother seems under any circumstances—mouthful of food, half asleep. And everyone loves him. I’ve never met someone who doesn’t like B, and vice versa. Last summer, he and his roommates had a barbecue at their house in the Ghetto, what UD students call the neighborhood where they live. Mom and Linnie and I went, and I sat on the porch and watched him for three hours laughing and talking with literally everyone at the party. He was like a magnet with a crowd of people around him at all times. I watched him and wondered how, after Dad died, he kept it—all that joy—and why I didn’t.

  B reaches for another cookie, and Mom says, “Don’t worry. We’re having dinner soon. And I made chili.”

  B nods like he just solved the crime. “I thought the cookies in my dream smelled a little like dead cow.”

  “Ick,” I say, and Liz giggles.

  “Donnnderrrrrr!” B says in his deep radio announcer voice that used to make me laugh no matter what. I don’t think he’s called me this in years, so as I’m laughing I also feel a little like crying. “Is Liz coming to your play?”

  “You’re in a play? I’d love to come.”

  I shoot my brother a dirty look. At school, I don’t really talk about my secret drama life with the St. Camillus de Lellis Players.

  “Good. It’s tomorrow night.” B grins. “Donna’s playing a bank teller. It should be riveting.”

  Once last year, Becky saw one of our plays and mentioned it after school when she’d roped me into helping her make student council posters. She said we could have pizza, and since she rarely asked me for anything, I said yes. As we sat around a table with thick, primary color markers, Becky had said, “You were awesome in your play last weekend.”

  “What?” Patty asked.

  I remained silent, but Becky spoke up for me. “Donna does plays at her church.”

  “That,” Patty said, “is so lame.”

  But here at our kitchen table, Liz says, “I’ll be there.”

  Now I have something else to worry about, which is losing a new friend the day after I meet her because she realizes what a huge dork I am. But I manage to relax enough to enjoy Mom’s chili and the Sasquatch documentary we end up watching, because Liz is there and seems to be having fun. And everyone seems to like her, too. Linnie even comes out and peeks her head into the living room with her shower cap on.

  When I walk Liz out to her car, she says, “You have a great family.”

  “They’re not usually this great. Maybe it’s you.”

  “I doubt it. Anyway,” she says, “I feel comfortable here. Thanks.” She gives me a quick hug, and I realize she smells cinnamony like her car, and also like vanilla.

  “Can I ask you something?” Liz says.

  “Sure.”

  “Is Charlie a good kisser?”

  “What? How would I know that?” For that matter, how would I know what anyone kisses like? I’ve never even gotten close.

  “You don’t? I mean, I thought you
two were an item.”

  I feel my face getting hot. “No. We’re not. We study together sometimes, but that’s it.”

  “You know he likes you, right?”

  “Um, no.” The thought that someone like Charlie might like someone like me makes me feel like miniature circus performers are doing aerial work in my stomach.

  “It’s pretty obvious.”

  “I guess I never thought about it.”

  “Well, think about it.” She grins. “If you’re into hippies.”

  I laugh and surprise myself with the sound of my own voice. I wonder if I am into hippies. What I do know is that I feel comfortable with Liz. And right now, in the cool air with my new friend, so much feels possible that I think it might just be okay to share my new discovery. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Of course.” She sets her purple purse down on the driveway at her feet.

  I watch how the fringe spreads out like octopus legs on the pavement. “I think I know what I want to be. You know—do, like for a job.” The words almost sound like I’m speaking another language, like I do sometimes in my dreams, where I’m in class and start speaking in some foreign tongue that I don’t even understand, and everyone looks at each other and says, “Oh, she’s the crazy one.”

  “What is it?” Liz says. “The suspense is killing me.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and wonder if it’s okay after all. “Can you keep it a secret?”

  “Are you going to be a hooker or something?” She laughs and then looks at me. “Yes,” she says, in a calm, kind voice. “I’m an expert secret keeper.”

  “So, you know people who work in funeral homes?” I pull at a thread on one of my sleeves. “Morticians?” I glance up at Liz.

  “You’re going to be a mortician? Wild.” She puts her hands on her hips and nods and smiles. “Like that weird dude you were talking to today. Wow. I’ve never been friends with a mortician before.”

  “I’m not one yet.”

  “Oh, you’ll be one. I can feel it.” She holds her hands out to the sky, closes her eyes, and breathes in. “You’ll be a good one.”

  “Thanks.” I feel myself smiling, and I’m thinking she could be right.

  She drops her hands to her sides and picks up her purse. “Okay, I want to get home so my parents don’t worry if they get there before me. But we’ll talk more tomorrow. I’ll see you at your play.”

  I almost forgot about that. “You don’t have to come, you know. Seriously. It’s just a stupid play.”

  “I don’t have to do anything. I choose to come, okay?”

  “I’ll see you there, then.”

  “Ciao,” she says, and kisses me on one cheek and then the other. As I feel the tingle of where Liz’s lips brushed the skin on my face, I have a flash of Angelo’s Italian Grocery on Main Street. I must look as discombobulated as I feel, because she says, “That’s how they do it in Europe.”

  “Oh,” I say, “ciao, then.” And I remember Saturday trips with Dad—just me and him—to Angelo’s. Dad would always grab one of the small Italian flags Angelo kept in the front display and wave it, saying “Ciao, ciao.” And then Dad would ask if Angelo had any extra cannoli so he could give one to his little lady, and Angelo, who had two gold front teeth, would say with a metallic grin, “Of course, one for the bella donna.”

  As Liz drives away, I look up at the sky. I can see a few stars and smell that spring smell again. Keeping my arms at my sides, I open my palms just a little and imagine what it feels like to be Liz, arms stretched wide to the heavens.

  When I go inside, I open the basement door a crack to see if B’s still up. I hear him on the phone, and he’s using his soft talking-to-Gwen voice. I shut the door. I’m glad I got to share my news with Liz, since B’s clearly not available.

  Mom’s asleep in the living room chair, and in our old room, Linnie lies on her bed with headphones over her shower cap, still cooking a new shade of hair. Walking down the hallway to the bathroom in our suddenly quiet house, I feel lonely and nervous.

  While I brush my teeth, I close my eyes and say in my head, I’ll be a good mortician. I will be. I do my best to spit out my fear with the toothpaste foam into the sink and watch it wash down the drain under the running water. Just to be safe, I run my hand over the whole sink, wipe away every last bit, and decide that tomorrow morning I’m going on a field trip to somewhere I once thought I’d never want to visit again. And I feel something, just a little something, move right where my heart should be.

  three

  In the morning, I eat a bowl of cereal and tell Mom I’m driving to the library to do some research in quiet. The research part is true. I will be doing that. For the moment, I’m putting Mom on a need-to-know status in terms of my future plans.

  I pull the Lark—the Buick Skylark that Linnie and I share—out onto Sherwood, make my way down Far Hills, and turn onto Falder Road. The sun hides behind a thick wall of gray clouds, so it’s colder today, and I keep the windows up as I drive past the old Big Boy, past the Kozy Korner, where Uncle Lou and Dad used to play cards. I think Uncle Lou still does, but I’m not sure.

  I turn off the road and down a short gravel driveway lined with those bright, self-assured tulips, like pageant contestants all in a row. Yesterday, Becky struggled to find a spot for her car in this parking lot packed with cars—just like it was three years and eight months ago. Now only two regular cars take up space in the lot, plus two long black hearses and two limos. An oval sign perched on the front lawn reads brighton brothers funeral home, and below that, a simple peace.

  I’ve got that nervous feeling again, here outside. So I sit in the car for a minute, reminding myself to breathe. I remember dressing up in my favorite purple sweater and new black dress pants that first night, and standing close to Mom and holding B’s hand. Then I remember Mom looking for Linnie later and my finding her out here, actually, near the side of the building, smoking with our cousin Olivia. I was so mad that she could even think of doing that while Dad was stuck inside in a coffin. Or maybe I was mad I hadn’t thought to sneak out myself.

  Now I open the big wooden door with the long brass handle, and inside, Brighton Brothers sounds even quieter than the classroom where I took my SAT. No listings are marked on the board in the lobby—they’ve already taken down Lila’s name.

  It’s vacant except for the shadows of all my cousins and aunts and uncles, Mom and Dad’s friends, Dad’s coworkers from Sanford Steel, who seemed so straitlaced and out of place compared to all of our crazy relatives. I glance into Viewing Room Two and half expect to see Dad lying in there. I’m relieved he’s not. Ahead of me, an arrow-shaped sign says office, and I follow it.

  I take a step directly onto a creaky floor spot and suddenly have the feeling I might get caught, even though I’m not doing anything wrong. A second later, I see Mr. Bob Brighton step out of the room that must be the office. He limps as he walks toward me and buttons his gray suit jacket.

  I raise a hand in a hesitant wave. “Hi.”

  Mr. Brighton always reminds me of a toy we had: a white-haired, round-faced plastic head of a dentist with a mustache poised over his big set of pearly teeth. The plastic man-head came with an array of dental tools, and we could take out the teeth. I decide not to tell Mr. Brighton about this.

  “Donna Parisi?” he says.

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Saw you here yesterday.” He takes another step toward me. “Very sad about Lila. Everything okay?”

  “No one else is dead.”

  “Oh,” he says.

  “I guess that’s usually why people come in here.”

  “Usually.” A lot like the dentist head toy, Mr. Brighton has something static and still about him, like he might not actually be real.

  I wonder if he needs that quality to make room for all the crying or angry people he must meet. And yesterday, it didn’t sound like Joe Brighton helped out much in that capacity. “Um, is your brother here?”

&
nbsp; “Joe? No he left this morning to go camping at Red River Gorge.”

  I wonder if Joe has his funeral suit rigged with some kind of Velcro so he can rip it off to reveal shorts and a T-shirt to do a quick change into Outdoorsy Joe.

  “Can I help you with something?” Bob Brighton winks. “I’m smarter than that guy anyway.”

  I was kind of hoping Joe would be here, but I remember how kind this Mr. Brighton was to my family, how he made sure all of Lila’s aunts had Kleenex close at hand all morning, and how Lila’s service ran like clockwork, even with so many teenagers around. This Mr. Brighton probably also knows a lot of things I’d like to know. “I just had a few questions. Of a general nature.”

  He studies me for a second, and I notice his eyes are amber-colored like a cat’s. “Come on in, then, and have a seat. Right now I can’t stand any longer on this darn hip.”

  I follow him into his office, and he settles behind his desk into a high-back leather chair that swivels. I sit across from him in one of two lower-back leather chairs that don’t swivel.

  Mr. Brighton pulls at a corner of his thick white mustache. “So what can I do for you? Of a general nature.”

  “Why is it so empty in here?”

  “Question with a question, is it?” He smiles and seems to relax a little. “It’s spring. Lila’s is the only service we’ve had during March. People don’t usually die in the springtime.” He holds up his hands and shrugs. “Just wait until the fall. They’ll be dropping like flies.” He grins. “And we’ll be in the green.”

  I raise an eyebrow. I hadn’t thought so much about mortician-ism as a business, but I guess it is, and I hadn’t thought about when death’s busy season happened either.

  Now Mr. Brighton definitely looks like a real person, one who’s realized he may have just said too much. “I’m sorry. I forgot my manners.” I see that both Brighton brothers are a little awkward and unlike anyone else I know, which just makes me like them even more.

  “I’m not upset. I just never thought about it, is all.” And I really don’t mind; it’s interesting to me—death as a business. “So how would someone become a mortician?”