Putting Makeup on Dead People

by Jen Violi

  I like cemeteries. When I was maybe eight, we all went walking in Woodland Cemetery so Dad could show us the Wright brothers’ graves. Dad made himself into an airplane and took off down the path until Mom declared him too sacrilegious for words. Then he stood in front of Mom and said, “I’m ready for my penance now, Sister Martha,” looking so actually penitent that Mom eventually giggled.

  I liked reading everyone’s names on the gravestones, wondering what those people were like when they were alive. And I liked the spot way up high in the cemetery where you could look out over the whole city.

  In the center of Chapman’s catalog, I find the application. I fold the perforation and carefully tear out two pages. I fill out my name and address and high school, feeling very accomplished. I turn it over and look at the last page, which lists three essay questions: Why do you want to study mortuary science? What do you think makes a good funeral director? What makes you think you’ll be a good funeral director? I think question number three sounds a little aggressive, and I wonder if Patty helped write it.

  I pull out the last new composition notebook I got for Christmas, the one with the picture of the ocean on the cover, which I’d been saving for something good. The one I’ve been using to write about funeral stuff, as Mr. Brighton suggested. Dad used to carry a little notebook with him. One summer, when I was eight or nine, we were sitting on a blanket on the lawn at Fraze Pavilion, waiting for a concert to start, and Dad pulled his notebook out of his back pocket and quickly scribbled something.

  I asked him what it was, and he said, “I guess it’s like a journal. Things I don’t want to forget. Things I liked or didn’t like.”

  B offered to help Dad set up a daily journal he could keep on the computer so he wouldn’t lose it, and Dad said, “Hell, no. A person should know what his own handwriting looks like.”

  I don’t think B ever took to the notebook writing, but I never forgot. The notebook Dad used was too little for me, but I think he’d approve of my ocean notebook and that I know very clearly what my own handwriting looks like—kind of blocky, without a lot of frills or loops.

  I start on the first application question. It turns out I don’t quite have an answer I can write yet, so I go to number two. For this one, all I can think of is: Grandpa-like. Nice. Sturdy hiking boots. Doesn’t talk too much. I close my notebook and decide to take a nap.

  After dinner, Linnie brings her dirty clothes down to the laundry room and leans against my desk, flicking one of Maurice’s dangling arms. “This is a little creepy.”

  “It’s a present from Liz.”

  “Still, creepy.”

  I wouldn’t think my sister, with her green hair and eye makeup springing from a color palette I’d call “Bruised,” would be bothered by a skeleton. “You’re creepy.”

  I move Maurice a few inches away from Linnie. Now both bony arms swing and shake—skeletal jazz hands. Maurice must know it’s almost my birthday. Jazz hands go with birthdays.

  “Mom won’t like it,” Linnie says, reaching for Maurice again.

  Maurice laughs in the way skeletons do—at me, at my sister’s hair, at the black stapler, and the retractable pens sprouting like plastic weeds out of the white mug with the blue lettering: the play’s the thing—we all got them from Father Bill for Christmas.

  “Mom doesn’t have to look at it.”

  “Whatever,” Linnie says. “I’m going to watch TV.”

  I put on my pajamas and crawl into bed with my ocean notebook, still contemplating essay questions I can’t answer.

  Mom knocks on my door and walks in. “What time do you want to go?”

  I know she’s talking about Dad’s grave. On the first birthday I had without Dad, I asked Mom if we could visit him. And every year on my birthday since he died, we’ve gone and planted flowers. Maybe planting flowers is a Cemetery Issue. I don’t know. “Is nine okay?”

  “Yes.” Mom walks over to my bed and kisses me on the forehead. “Happy almost birthday.” Maurice catches her eye, and she turns toward my desk. “What is that?”

  “My skeleton.” I decide not to tell her his name. Maurice prefers to go incognito.

  Mom folds her arms, like she’s about to give me a lecture. “Donna, that’s a little dark, don’t you think?”

  “Liz gave it to me for my birthday.”

  “Oh.” Mom seems stumped. Now that the skeleton came from Liz, maybe it seems more interesting than dark. “Okay.”

  When she leaves and I’m alone again, staring at my notebook and the Chapman application questions, knowing Maurice is watching me, I feel sad and a little angry. I guess some part of me thought figuring out what I wanted to do would make everything better, would make me happy and full somehow. Instead, I’ve now inherited more questions I can’t answer yet.

  Wilbur Wright, 45

  Cause of Death: Typhoid fever

  Surviving Immediate Family:

  Father: Milton

  Brothers: Reuchlin, Lorin, Orville

  Sister: Katarine

  Open-casket viewing

  Funeral Incidents:

  Hearse drawn by white horses

  The Dayton Daily News reported, “Thousands Follow Sad Cortege.”

  Saddest thing someone says: “Wilbur had plans no one will be able to carry into execution.”—Orville Wright

  Orville Wright, 76

  Cause of Death: Heart attack

  Surviving Immediate Family:

  None

  Funeral Incidents:

  New jet fighter planes fly over Woodland Cemetery in tribute

  five

  “What’s the matter with you?” Mom asks, shaking the extra dirt off of the silver spade.

  “We’re at the cemetery,” I say. “People are often troubled at cemeteries.”

  “Donna Marie, we’ve been coming here for almost four years.” She gives some final pats to the dirt around the red petunias we just planted in front of Dad’s gravestone. “I’m not talking about the cemetery.”

  I touch one of the flowers, feel the satiny petals. Dad loved petunias; so do I. Silently, I say hello to him. As usual, I wish I could talk with him in person, tell him my big news, get his approval.

  “So?” Mom asks. “Is it because you turned eighteen today?”

  “Mom,” I say.

  “Something about school?” She pulls off her gardening gloves.

  “No, and nothing is the matter with me.”

  “You’re a terrible liar,” she says, and reties the silk scarf that keeps her hair from frizzing out to eternity.

  I just shake my head; she won’t understand. She won’t want me to become a mortician. She’ll want me to go to regular college like everyone else and not ask any questions about it. Mom likes things to go according to plan, and this is decidedly unscheduled.

  “Help me up,” she says, holding out her hand. “Your brother’s bringing something special for lunch.”

  I stand and pull her up. I watch the petunias quiver a little with the breeze, imagine that’s Dad waving happy birthday to me.

  “And”—Mom pauses until I turn to look at her—“you’d be surprised at what I understand.”

  At home, B has brought us an extra-large mushroom-and-onion pizza from Marion’s, the really good kind with the sweet tomato sauce and cut into lots of little squares. My favorite.

  After we finish the pizza, Mom says, “Now close your eyes.”

  When I hear her start singing and B start singing and Linnie very faintly joining in, I open my eyes and see a triple-decker chocolate cake with eighteen flames hovering over eighteen purple candles.

  I blow out the candles, and through the smoke I look at the big chocolate cake Mom baked and iced, at the purple sprinkles she got just for me, and I decide maybe I would be surprised at what she understands. Maybe I shouldn’t be afraid of telling her; maybe it would be okay. I remember that Uncle Lou and Aunt Irene are taking me and Mom to lunch tomorrow, and I decide it would be good to have them presen
t as a buffer. Just in case. Uncle Lou, whether intending to or not, always creates a diversion.

  The next afternoon, Uncle Lou plucks the lemon off the edge of his water glass and puts it on his bread plate. “I’m not a goddamn girl,” he says, shaking his head. And then, to me, “So how many boyfriends do you have these days?”

  “None,” I say, and before Uncle Lou can ask any more questions that make me feel uncomfortable and awkward, as Uncle Lou is apt to do, I add, “So, I have something to tell you two.”

  Mom gets that look on her face like she’s terrified I’ll say I’m pregnant or something. Which is pretty funny considering I still haven’t even kissed anyone. She puts down her roll but keeps hold of her knife, a clump of butter smeared on its tip.

  “You’re not knocked up, are you?” Uncle Lou asks, a little too loudly, and two middle-aged women in corduroy jumpers and cream-colored turtlenecks at a neighboring table turn to us, aghast. Maybe I look more promiscuous than I thought.

  “No, everyone,” I say. “Not pregnant.”

  “Thank God,” Mom says, and makes the sign of the cross.

  We are at Vandermeer’s, which is Uncle Lou’s Special Event restaurant, and I guess that means my birthday is a Special Event. Aunt Irene was supposed to join us, but Uncle Lou says she wasn’t feeling well. I think that’s Aunt Irene’s way of saying she can’t stand Vandermeer’s and doesn’t get what Uncle Lou sees in it. Today, Uncle Lou sports an orange Hawaiian shirt and Kelly green polyester pants, which he has identified as his “lucky trousers,” something I have zero desire to interpret.

  Possibly inspired by said lucky trousers, Uncle Lou winks at the turtlenecked women, who quickly look down at their dinner rolls.

  Mom glares at Uncle Lou, who shrugs and leans back into the pink cushion on his faux-wood chair.

  Taking in Vandermeer’s décor—funeral home, circa 1972—I hope I’ll have some decorating input at Brighton Brothers or wherever I work. Because seriously, the dim lights and the pastel floral drape patterns will have to go.

  I don’t understand why a funeral home can’t be brighter—you know, more of a place that doesn’t make you want to kill yourself while you’re burying someone you love.

  I fold my hands in my lap. I inhale and exhale. “I’m going to mortuary school.”

  “Is that with the birds?” Uncle Lou asks.

  “Dead people,” I say. “Birds are aviary.”

  “You’re going to school with dead people?” Uncle Lou asks. “Why on earth would you do that?”

  I want to say, It just feels right, but that doesn’t seem like a good enough answer—not for him and certainly not for Chapman’s application essay questions.

  “Absolutely not.” Mom’s lips are set in an even line, and a crease divides her forehead. She turns to me. “Honey, you’ve already made your college plans.” I can tell she’s attempting not to raise her voice, and I know I’m about to raise mine.

  Our waiter saves us all, for a moment. His name is Rocky, and he looks less like Rocky the fighter than Rocky the squirrel.

  “You like Stallone?” Uncle Lou asks.

  “I’m sorry?” Rocky says.

  “Sly Stallone,” Uncle Lou repeats, leaning in.

  “Never heard of him,” Rocky says.

  “You’re shitting me.” Uncle Lou raises one thick white eyebrow.

  “No, sir.” Rocky takes a deep breath, and, to our great surprise, is shitting no one. He seems to be trying very hard not to let Uncle Lou get to him. “Can I take your orders?”

  We order lunch, and when Rocky exits, Mom says, “Lou, that was rude.”

  “Well, Jesus, Martha,” Uncle Lou says, “what do kids watch these days?”

  Mom ignores the question and turns to me. “You’ve already been accepted to a wonderful school, and that’s where you’ll be going.”

  “But I don’t want to go to that wonderful school. I never wanted to go there.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it.” Mom rips a piece off her roll. “Besides, it’s too late to change your plans now.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says your mother.” Mom rips a piece of roll off the smaller piece she just tore off. I wonder if she might shred the whole thing. “Lou, how’s Sylvia since her foot surgery?” Which is Mom’s way of saying we’re done talking about this.

  “You can’t ignore me,” I say. “I’m right here.”

  “Right now,” Mom says, “we’re talking about your aunt’s surgery. You can participate or not. Your choice.”

  I choose to not participate, which seems unfair, given that we’re supposed to be celebrating my birthday.

  At dessert, I ask for a virgin mudslide instead of pie, and everyone looks at me like I’m some brand of nuts. “That will be my dessert,” I try to explain.

  “You saw they have blueberry pie?” Mom says.

  “Yes,” I say, “but this will be fine.” I smile at Rocky.

  “You don’t want some dessert with it?” Uncle Lou repeats.

  I shake my head.

  “She’s a drinker, Rambo,” Uncle Lou says to Rocky.

  Rocky nods solemnly, writes something else on his note-pad, and walks away.

  Uncle Lou leans across the table and squints at my hand, resting next to my water glass. “It’s definitely hereditary. The way you sit with your index finger pointed out like that. Nicky did that all the time.”

  I look down at my hand, at my pointy index finger like Dad’s, and I wish he was here right now. Without looking up, I say, “It’s not too late to change my college plans.”

  Mom sighs and says, “Donna, I’m glad you found something you’re excited about. Believe me. But it can’t be this.” Her voice sounds soft, and she smiles at me like she’s sad. “You’re already so—” She stops herself. “I just don’t think mortuary school is the best place for you.”

  Under the table, I fold my hands together, pressing my fingers into the backs of my hands.

  “UD is a good school and seems like such a happy place.” Mom brushes crumbs off the tablecloth. “You’ll make lots of friends and have good role models around.”

  “You don’t think I’d find any friends or role models at mortuary school?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  I feel fluttery in my chest, and my neck is getting hot. I want to yell, but my voice comes out quiet and low. “What are you saying, then?”

  “I just think Communications is a great major for you. You’ll learn how to interact with all kinds of people. Live ones.”

  “Virgin mudslide for the young lady.” Rocky steps up to the table and distributes two blueberry pie slices and one chocolate drink that I wish was full of alcohol.

  I slurp the mudslide loudly on purpose through my straw. I glance at Rocky. “Sorry, my mom doesn’t usually take me out in public. I haven’t learned how to interact with live people yet.”

  “Watch it.” Mom stabs her fork into her pie.

  “Enjoy your dessert,” Rocky says, backing slowly away from the table.

  I watch purple juice bleed out of the pale piecrust, like Mom’s wounded it. I know how the pie feels. “Dad would have thought this was a great idea.”

  Mom lets her fork drop, and it clanks against the plate. A few drops of juice splatter onto the white tablecloth. She grabs the edge of the table and doesn’t look up.

  I know I shouldn’t say anything else. I know I’ve already crossed some line, and I can feel something like a lightning storm in the air. But I can’t stop myself, and I’m angry. I’ve finally found a job I actually want to do, and Mom wants to stop me. “Dad would want me to do what I love.”

  Mom looks up at me, eyes like steel. “Well, your father isn’t here. It’s just me.”

  “I know,” I say. “And it’s just me, too.”

  We stare at each other, and I can almost hear thunder rumbling or someone whistling in a dusty Old West town.

  Uncle Lou clears his throat. “So, how muc
h does a mortuary school education go for these days?”

  “Lou,” Mom says, releasing her grip on the table, “Donna and I will finish this discussion later.” She forces a smile. The storm appears to be over, for now. “What I want to know is if you and Irene made plans for that trip to South Carolina.”

  I’m grateful for the detour and impressed that it’s also a useful one. Uncle Lou loves to talk about the beach, and can go on for at least twenty minutes marveling at beverages served in pineapples. Mom may understand Uncle Lou, but I’m pretty sure she’ll never get me at all. And I’m not looking forward to discussing anything later.

  That night, I avoid Mom and return to the basement and my application. I complete the rest of the fill-in-the-blank parts and reluctantly check “deceased” after I write out Dad’s name. I look again at the essay questions, and I know that mortuary school just feels right, even if it’s not a good enough answer.

  Or maybe it is. I remember one of my favorite stories about Mom and Dad. At B’s old computer, I sit down and start writing. Sometimes something just feels right, like when my parents described how they first met at the Beavercreek Roller Rink in a six-skater pileup.

  In the morning, well after Mom has left for work, I reread my essays, print them out, and set them next to the application on the kitchen table. Also on the kitchen table, Mom has left a note. We’ll talk later. I do love you (whether you know it or not). Mom. Which means she’ll try to convince me to go to my brother’s school and play nice with the other college kids. And until a week ago, that would have been fine.

  Out the window above the counter, the sky looks like the Little Miami River—steely, dirty, cloudy. I make myself a peanut-butter-and-banana bagel for lunch and drink a tall glass of milk, staring at the application like it might crawl somewhere if I take my eyes off of it. Ridiculous.

  Pretending the line on the floorboards in the front hall is a tightrope, I walk one foot in front of the other, back and forth until I feel a little dizzy. The clock ticks through the silence, and I whisper the word “hello,” just to hear the sound of my voice. I say it again, louder and louder. “Hello. HELLO!” I walk fast over to the table and my application and shout, “Should I do this? Is anyone listening? Are you listening?” With my hands gripping the edge of the table, I close my eyes and listen for a rumbly voice I worry I’m starting to forget. I wait for him to say, “That’s it. You’re on the right track, sweetheart.” I squint my eyes tighter, thinking that might improve my hearing. Nothing. But then I feel my hands getting warm.