Putting Makeup on Dead People

by Jen Violi

  Once we get to the center, there are about ten of us plus the instructor, who I half expected to be wearing a long black robe and to be very pale. I did not expect a ruddy-cheeked woman in a red hooded sweatshirt and jeans, but there she is, introducing herself as Kirsten, the rituals class teacher.

  The community center room we’re in has a bunch of old couches and soft chairs, which it seems Kirsten has arranged into a circle of sorts. Liz and Patty and I sit on one of the couches, and Patty makes sure she sits between Liz and me.

  Patty checks out Kirsten, smirks, and crosses her legs.

  I hear Liz say, “You know, Patty, you didn’t have to come. We could call your mom to come pick you up.”

  “No, I want to be here.” Patty stops smirking. “I think it’ll be really interesting.”

  Kirsten talks for a while about all kinds of things, how rituals can be as simple as a prayer before bedtime or before meals. “Often, effective rituals are balanced,” she says. “As in, if you want something new to come, sometimes you have to let go of something else. For instance, in many Christian rituals, there’s an opportunity to say you’re sorry for your sins before you petition the deity for anything else. Or in many earth religions, you acknowledge and thank the gods and goddesses and spirits around you and release any negativity before you welcome in new energy.”

  Then Kirsten explains how rituals can take us from one place to another, like rituals welcoming new babies into a community or coming-of-age rituals for young men and women in Native American or other traditions. Or rituals to help the dead journey to what’s beyond, and to help the living move to a peaceful life without them.

  My ears perk up at that. I wonder if Dad has journeyed to what’s beyond, and I worry that maybe he hasn’t, since I haven’t moved to anything I’d call a peaceful life without him.

  Liz glances over and gives me a tiny smile. Her eyes are soft.

  At Dad’s funeral we sang that song “On Eagle’s Wings.” And He will raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of dawn, make you to shine like the sun, and hold you in the palm of His hand. I cried as I sang, and I cried as I listened to the sound of other voices when I couldn’t sing anymore. Maybe God did take Dad that way—it sounds so beautiful and tangible. Eagle’s wings and dawn’s breath and glowing warm and safe in a big divine hand. But going to church doesn’t feel like that to me, in a building that’s often stuffy and with so many things to do right and wrong and to feel bad about either way. More of a divine fist than an open divine hand. It just sort of makes me feel numb and bored, kind of like how Patty looks right now.

  Her eyes seem glazed over, and I notice she’s tapping her boot on the floor, her knee bouncing up and down. That Patty may be bored right now baffles me since all of this seems so fascinating. And I’m assuming it pisses Liz off, because she clamps her hand down on Patty’s knee and mouths the word Stop.

  Patty stops and rolls her eyes.

  Kirsten says that in ancient Egypt, they took great care getting dead bodies ready for the afterlife, and all of a sudden I imagine Mr. Bob Brighton decked out like King Tut. Which is not actually a great look for him. I push that out of my mind and wonder if that’s what I’d be doing as a mortician. If that’s one way of loving the whole person—you know, getting them ready for the afterlife.

  I remember Dad in his coffin and noticing the makeup. Did JB do that to get Dad ready? And what does that say about the afterlife? You need lipstick to get by? What with the lipstick and the eagle’s wings, I worry there’s a real possibility that the afterlife could be an awful lot like a musical Father Bill might write for the Players.

  By now Kirsten is quoting someone named Joseph Campbell and talking about following our bliss—how cultures used to have coming-of-age rituals in place to help young people do just that, but now we have people of all ages wandering around not sure what to do with themselves or their lives.

  And as she talks about how each person may in fact have something he or she is deeply supposed to do, the only thing I can think about is death. I wonder if my bliss is death, which sounds ridiculous. But also true. Because right then being a mortician doesn’t feel like an if. It’s more like a when. I feel the certainty slip over me like a new fancy dress that I’m not quite sure how to wear. Does it fit? Do I look stupid? Will anyone even notice I’m wearing something different?

  For a moment, I look to my right, and both Patty and Liz are paying attention. I guess Patty’s not bored anymore. And I’m so interested in what Kirsten says that I forget to be self-conscious or even mad that Patty came with us.

  At break, when Patty goes to use the ladies’ room, Liz grabs my arm. “I’m sorry! She called, and she was so bummed. Her prom date has mono or something, so he can’t go this weekend. I couldn’t get the whole story because she wouldn’t stop crying. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “It’s okay.” I know it’s childish, but I’m totally relieved that Liz didn’t ask Patty to come with us. I can feel better about Patty as a charity case.

  When class starts again, Kirsten says, “Now I want to hear from you. I’d like us to go around the circle and each share a ritual we do, or at least one we know about.”

  No one said anything about class participation, and I feel myself start to sweat and hope my deodorant from this morning takes me and my armpits through the night. Then Kirsten adds, “You can also pass,” and I let out an almost audible sigh of relief.

  Sharing works its way around the circle, with everything from saying a prayer to the four directions each evening, to lighting candles in church.

  Liz says that every time she takes a shower, she sings.

  “A very powerful water ritual.” Kirsten nods. “And claiming your own voice.”

  I can see Liz eating this up, and I’m glad Kirsten said those words to her.

  Even Patty says that every morning as she puts on her makeup, she looks herself in the eyes and tells herself how beautiful she is and that she better keep working to maintain it.

  “Interesting, Patty, thanks,” Kirsten says, and I like her even more for her diplomacy. Then Kirsten holds out her hand to me.

  I think for a moment of the quiet place in my chest where I go whenever I need to escape the world. “Pass,” I say.

  On the way home, Liz decides we’re going to do a springtime love attraction ritual on Saturday night, while everyone else is at prom. Since no one has asked me to go, and since Liz has declined what I’ve now discovered to be about five invitations, I think that’s a great idea. Patty, however, bursts into tears. “I can’t miss my senior prom.” She sniffles.

  “You could go by yourself,” Liz offers.

  “That’s even worse,” Patty wails.

  Come Saturday night, Liz, Patty, and I are situated in Liz’s basement, where Liz has lit what seems like hundreds of candles and is burning an incense stick in one of the Shiva statue’s multiple hands. The smoke alarm went off once already, and Liz’s mom asked us to open the screen door to let some air in, so it’s a little chilly.

  We each sit on big cushions Liz took off the couch. I have goose bumps, which Liz has said will enhance the ritual, that I’ll feel “more alive.” Right now I’m just cold, and wondering how much longer we’re going to “sit in silence to prepare ourselves.”

  I look at Liz, whose eyes are closed, and Patty, who is checking out her fingernails. I whisper, “Should we paint our faces?”

  “No,” Liz says, opening one eye. “This is serious.”

  “Face paint can be serious,” I say.

  Liz looks at me with an expression I’ve seen Mom use—maybe we all have one of those “settle down” faces at our disposal. Liz takes a deep breath and says, “We will begin.” From under her cushion she pulls out three pieces of homemade paper and three purple pens and divides them among us. “Now we list all that we want in a partner.”

  After several questions from Patty about what partner means and if it’s the same as boyfriend, Liz uses sage
to smudge the room and us and our paper. After one shot glass each of chocolate liqueur, we make our lists.

  Good dancer, smart, nice hands like Dad’s. Does that belong? Then an image of Charlie, environmental champion, pops into my head. Interested in the world; kind.

  After we burn our lists to release them, and set off the smoke alarm once more, Liz’s mom says we’re done with the gift of fire. So we end the night eating Cheerios in Liz’s blaze-free kitchen, and Patty invites us to a senior picnic she’s attending tomorrow.

  “I can’t. I have a Players meeting tomorrow.” I’m assuming the chocolate liqueur made me do it; otherwise I have no clue why I’d say that in front of Patty.

  Liz adds some Cheerios to her bowl. “Your theater troupe?”

  Patty laughs. “Are you still doing that weird thing?”

  “Donna knows it’s weird. That makes a difference. Besides, everyone knows you can learn from unusual and interesting people.” Liz slurps milk from her spoon.

  I wish that Liz could be around all the time to be my interpreter. She always makes everything sound so much better than it is. “Although, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to learn from Leaf,” I confess.

  When I describe Leaf, Patty says, “She sounds like a freak. Why else would her husband leave her?” I nod in agreement and feel bad at the same time, like I’ve betrayed someone. But what if Patty’s right? Freaks get left. Freaks might not even ever get found. Right then I have a sinking feeling that that’s what I am, and fear pours cold and damp over my skin—what if Patty knows? What if everyone knows? I swallow the thought and the fear deep down into a back corner of my gut, hiding it as best as I can.

  Patty lifts her bowl and drinks the last of her milk. “Sit up straight,” she says, staring at my shoulders and setting her bowl down. “Tall girls shouldn’t slouch.”

  “And short girls shouldn’t tell people what to do,” Liz says, taking Patty’s bowl to the sink. Still, I push my shoulders back just a little.

  On Sunday afternoon, when Father Bill is supposed to hand out a new script, all I can think of is what Patty said about freaks last night. And what Kirsten said in class. If you want something new to come, you have to let go of something else. Like this. Before the meeting, I tell Father Bill that I have an announcement to make. I’m intending to quit.

  But then Father Bill says we need some cast bonding and that he’s planned a June Lock-In for us, full of theater games and improv, and after that, Keenie hands me a graduation card saying dream big. live large with $150 from all of the Players.

  When Father Bill asks if I still have something to say, I shake my head. A ray of sun from the window glares off his bald head. “Okay then, calendars out!”

  I close my eyes. All I can imagine is sitting around in a circle on the gym stage, holding hands, and chanting, “Light as a feather and stiff as a board,” and trying to levitate Leaf.

  nine

  The day before graduation, I’m home alone when I see the mailman pull up outside. Walking out to the mailbox in a T-shirt and shorts, I’m noticing spring shifting to summer. The sun feels just a little warmer on my neck and arms and legs, and the driveway feels nice and toasty—but not burning hot, like it will get—on my bare feet.

  The mailbox still has the “Parisi” that Dad painted in red, and it reminds me of the fake handwriting he would use to leave us letters from Santa Claus. Just a little different, a little fancier than his regular writing.

  Inside are bills for Mom and a piece of junk mail addressed to Mr. Domenic Parisi, the kind that Mom always replies to, informing them that her husband has died and requesting that they please stop sending things to the house. Sometimes they stop; most times they don’t. And when they don’t, Mom gets mad and I get sad, wishing Dad would just come back already and pick up his mail. So I fold up this piece to stuff it in the bottom of the kitchen trash can.

  Underneath another bill for Mom, I discover an envelope addressed to me from Chapman College of Mortuary Science. For a second I stop breathing. Recognizing that’s not a reasonable practice to continue, I start breathing again, leave Mom’s mail on the table, and take the letter downstairs to my bedroom. I set it on my bed and look at it. From the window, not a single ray of sunlight is beaming in. It’s just me and a rectangular envelope with my fate inside it. I slide my finger under the flap and open it. As I read the letter, I feel a smile bloom across my face.

  I grab the phone and call Liz and tell her that it’s official. I’ve been accepted to Chapman College of Mortuary Science. I pace back and forth in my room; it’s hard to stay still right now.

  “Congratulations! Woo-hoo,” Liz yells, and I have to hold the phone away from my ear for a second. “I knew it. Wow, that’s fantastic.”

  “Now I’ve just got to convince Mom that it’s fantastic. Maybe I should have you tell her.”

  “She’ll come around, D. No worries.”

  “Thanks,” I say, although I’m not so sure about that.

  “And I’ve got some news too.”

  Liz has decided to go to CMU, so in the fall she’s going to Pittsburgh. And there’s something else: their journalism program offers special early internships, and Liz landed one writing travel articles for the young traveler for Global Adventure Magazine. Starting next week, she and her parents will be in Ireland for a month.

  “Liz, that’s great,” I say, but I’ve stopped pacing.

  “Well, we’re both going out with a bang,” Liz says. “I hear there are all kinds of Witches in Ireland—maybe I’ll meet some. And maybe the universe is going to provide me with an Irish boyfriend.” She giggles.

  If Mom doesn’t lock me in the basement, I’m going to the mortuary, and Liz is going to the Emerald Isle. Suddenly my news doesn’t sound so exciting.

  “Hey, are you all right?”

  “I’ll just miss you is all.” We had planned to do all kinds of things. Go out to Yellow Springs and hike in the park, go to the Strawberry Festival, learn how to make astrology charts for ourselves. Okay, Liz had really come up with all of these ideas, but I was excited to do them with her. And I’m not sure I’ll do anything without her.

  “I’ll miss you too. And listen, I’m not gone all summer. We’ll still have time to do fun things when I get back.”

  That night, I wait for Mom on the front porch. When she comes through the door, I hand her my Chapman envelope.

  She pulls out the letter and reads it. “Sweetheart,” she starts with a voice that is more sour than sweet, “this is not the best place for you.”

  “I think it is.” I stand in front of my mother, and I’m ready to fight.

  “Well maybe you’re only eighteen years old,” she says sharply, “and you don’t know any better.”

  “Like you know anything.” I know it sounds childish, but I can’t think of anything else to say. Or I don’t know how to say anything else, anything really important. All I can do is repeat, “I think it is.”

  I see her start to respond, but instead she closes her mouth, like she’s doing it with sheer will. And she closes her eyes and takes a deep, long breath—so long that I feel like I might have stopped breathing in the meantime. If this is her new battle tactic, it’s working, because I’m confused and totally off guard.

  When she opens her eyes, she smiles. “Donna, I love you.” Her face looks peaceful, and her voice sounds tranquil.

  I stare at her.

  “You’re just going to have to tell them no, that you’ve been accepted elsewhere.”

  “I’m not going to do that.” I can’t defend myself in terms of having already mastered all that a Communications degree could offer, but I know UD is not the place for me. I know what I want and what I’m going to do, no matter what. “You can’t stop me, you know. I’m eighteen years old.”

  “And how are you going to pay for mortuary school?” Mom has the expression of the villain who’s found the upper hand. Aha, I’ve got you now.

  I hadn’t thought about this
. I always assumed Mom would help me pay for college. I guess I could ask Father Dean to let me return to the St. Camillus basement dungeon to stuff as many bulletins as I can get my hands on. I wonder how many bulletins equal the first tuition payment. But then I remember Mr. Brighton’s offer—I have my own card to play. I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m getting a job. At Brighton Brothers. This summer. And I can get student loans.”

  Mom sets her purse down on the floor and sighs. “You’re right. I can’t stop you.” She reaches out and touches my face. “But you’ve got to know that I don’t approve of this. And there are some things we need to talk about.”

  I step back from Mom and her hand.

  For a moment, her hand is stretched toward me, trying to reach me but not touching. Then her arm falls to her side. “I’m worried about you.”

  “Well, I guess that’s your problem.” I step over her purse and into the house.

  Graduation is a blur of orange robes and family members flooding out of the Woodmont auditorium. Afterward, on the front lawn of the school, Gwen takes a picture of me, Mom, B, and Linnie. I offer a halfhearted smile, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Becky’s aunt take a picture of Becky and her mom and dad. Mr. Bell looks so proud, smiling at Becky like she must be the most amazing creature he could imagine. Mom has her arm around me, and I’m suddenly aware that no one’s on my other side, gazing at me with that kind of admiration. Then three-year-old Leah tugs on Mr. Bell’s pant leg. “Me too, Daddy!”

  Easy as pie, he hoists Leah up onto his shoulders, and she squeals as Becky’s aunt snaps another shot. I feel an ache in my chest and a yearning to be that small, to be lifted up again onto Dad’s strong shoulders, to breathe in some air that would feel cleaner and purer, to get a bigger view of it all.

  Then, Becky’s pulling me into a group picture with everyone from our lunch table. Liz stands on one side of me, and Becky’s on the other. Patty and Charlie and Jim line up behind us. Patty smiles so wide I think her stupid face might break. “This is the best time of our lives,” she says, shaking her head.