by Jen Violi
I shake my head too, and look toward the cameras.
God, I hope not.
Becky has tears on her face, and I feel like I should be as moved as she is. But more than anything, I can’t wait to go home.
“Don’t worry,” Charlie whispers. I feel his breath warm in my ear. “It’s almost over.”
I turn back to him and smile as flashes go off in front of us.
This time, I walk right into Brighton Brothers and back to Mr. Brighton’s office, like I know what I’m doing.
When I show him my letter, he smiles and says, “I guess this means you’re serious. And interested in that summer job?” He seems almost as excited as I am.
I’m also relieved that I’ll have something to do while Liz is away. “Why, yes I am.”
“Okay, then,” he says. “For starters, how about a tour?”
“That sounds good.”
“Might as well dive right in. Let’s start in the prep room.”
I follow him down to the basement, where a big glass door leads into a room conveniently labeled prep room. It dates back to the fifties, Mr. Brighton tells me. It’s a rectangular room with one small window up high in the back. There are three long skinny tables—two stainless steel and one fancy porcelain, which Mr. Brighton says cost him an arm and a leg.
On the fancy porcelain table lies the body of a blond-haired boy, who looks younger than me and wears a white button-down shirt and khaki pants.
“Very sad,” Mr. Brighton says. “A suicide.” He tells me the boy’s name is Henry Kunkel, and that the immediate family will come for a private viewing this evening. Mr. Brighton has already embalmed Henry, and JB’s going to get him ready for the family’s visit. The family won’t hold any other visitation hours, even though Mr. Brighton encouraged them to. “It’s still death, and his friends and family still need to grieve. But it’s their choice, and we have to honor that.”
I know how lonely I’ve felt, and looking at Henry, I realize that loneliness and despair can have depths even I can’t imagine. I realize there’s a lot I have to learn.
On the back of the door, four long white coats hang on hooks. Mr. Brighton explains that both he and JB do embalming—JB mostly does the makeup, and they have relatives who help sometimes with the wakes and services. Mr. Brighton’s son wasn’t interested in the business; he actually became a kindergarten teacher and now has a three-year-old daughter. “You’ll get to meet Delia,” he says. “She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” I knew he had that grandpa vibe going on, and I know from his smile that he loves that Delia.
On a long counter against one wall are boxes of shower caps and gloves and gallon containers of pink juice that I’m guessing I wouldn’t want to drink.
On our way out, Mr. Brighton touches the porcelain table where Henry rests. He closes his eyes and nods his head, and I think of how sometimes at St. Camillus they do veneration of the cross and people go up like they do in a Communion line and silently touch or kiss the crucifix. In church, I’m pretty sure veneration means thanking Jesus for dying for us, but Mr. Brighton’s gesture seems to me at this moment more of a way to say thank you for living and doing the best you could. I lower my head too, and do my best to venerate Henry.
Once we’re outside, I notice goose bumps all over my arms, and rub them with my hands—the temperature has definitely shifted.
“We’ve got to keep it cold in there,” Mr. Brighton says. “Otherwise, it wouldn’t smell so pretty.” He chuckles—I’m assuming because the room actually smelled like Clorox and Silly Putty, neither of which I’ve seen in scented candles.
Upstairs, we go through a parlor area outside of Viewing Room Two. Folding chairs are lined against the walls for extra seating, and inside there are some love seats and chairs, all very formal looking. In the viewing room itself, I can see dents in the carpet where the casket usually is. I remember this spot.
“Dad was here.”
“My dad was in this room too.” Mr. Brighton pats my shoulder. “No way around it in this place. And there have been so many since then, that it gets easier. This room can’t just belong to one person. It belongs to all of us.”
I hold my hand on my stomach and take a deep breath like Mom showed me. Mr. Brighton is right. No way to get around it; not if I’m going to work here. It has to belong to everyone. And, I tell myself, I’m going to work here. I go to my quiet place and ask Dad not to take it personally. I hope he understands.
On the second floor, a spacious living room branches off into three hallways. Mr. Brighton points to the first two hallways and says, “This is where we live. Me and Mrs. B. and Joe. And this,” he says, walking me down the third hallway, “is something for you to think about once you start school. Often, mortuary students live where they work. You don’t have to, but I think it’s a good idea. You get the feel for it.”
He opens a door to a warm-looking room with butter yellow walls, a bed, a desk and a big armchair, and a sink next to another door, which opens to a little bathroom with a shower and toilet.
“We haven’t had a student in years, but we use this as a guest room sometimes. So it’s in pretty good shape. Your own room and bathroom. You’d share our kitchen. And let me tell you, Mrs. Brighton makes a great potpie. I’m hungry just thinking about it.”
His voice seems far away as I step into the room and turn my head slowly to take it all in. The room feels fresh and open and has two big windows on one wall. I imagine Maurice the skeleton on the desk. And on the bed, which is twice as big as mine, I can almost see the oversized purple star-shaped pillow Dad gave me for Christmas when I was ten. I have the simultaneous feelings of being terrified and wanting to go jump on the mattress.
I step back out of the room and nod at Mr. Brighton. “Okay.”
“Anyway,” he says, “it’s something for you to think about.”
Before I go, Mr. Brighton and I agree that I’ll start work in two weeks. He wanted me to take a month so I could have some vacation, since I just graduated. But I know that Liz is leaving this week and that I’ve got tuition bills coming soon, so I convince him I won’t need that long.
On Thursday morning, Liz comes over to say good-bye. Her flight leaves in the evening. Her hair is pulled back on the sides, and she’s wearing a short beige jacket over a sleeveless teal dress. She looks so grown-up. I feel young and small.
From her purple bag she pulls out a book called Everything Witchcraft. “I’m going to read up on things for us to do when I get back.”
Then she pulls out an orange votive candle and hands it to me. “I anointed it for you. All I had was olive oil, but olive leaves have something to do with friendship, right?”
“It kind of smells like pasta.” I smile a small smile. “I like pasta.”
“You can use it for rituals or whatever you want. I’ll miss you,” she says, hugging me. “And I’ll send you postcards.”
“Lots of postcards.” I didn’t feel like crying at graduation, but I could right now.
That night, when I’m in bed in the dark basement, I hear someone coming down the steps and see Linnie’s silhouette in the hallway light. She says softly, “So, Liz left today?”
“Yeah.”
“And she’ll be gone for a whole month?”
“Yes. Thanks for reminding me.”
“I’m sorry. I know you’ll miss her.” Her voice is kind and gentle, at least for Linnie, and not what I was expecting.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
As I hear her walk up the steps and close the door, I roll onto my side and stare through the dark, making out the shape of the window and the blinds and the curtain. I hear the nighttime bugs clicking and chirping outside the window. What would it be like to sleep in the yellow room, no Linnie or Mom upstairs? Just me. I’m not sure I could do it even if I want to. Usually, the quiet lulls me, but right now I feel afraid, like everything’s changing so fast I can’t keep up.
Henry
Kunkel, 15
Cause of Death: Blood loss
Surviving Immediate Family:
Mother: Justine
Father: Richard
Grandmother: Taylor
Makeup: Ivory and tan cream cosmetic blend over scars on wrists, pale tan cream cosmetic on face
Clothing: White IZOD dress shirt, khaki pants, and navy blue fabric belt
Casket: Pine with cotton lining
Private family viewing. No visitation hours.
Comment made during funeral planning: “We just need to be done with this and move on.”—Richard Kunkel
ten
On Friday night, Becky calls me while I’m watching a made-for-TV movie with Linnie. I take my phone out to the front porch to talk, and Becky says, “Jim’s soccer friends are having a graduation party tomorrow, out in Beavercreek. Want to come with us?”
“On your date?” It’s still getting cool in the evenings, so I pull the orange afghan from the wicker couch over my legs.
“Jim’s cousin Tim will be there. He’s cute, and he’s in college. He asked if I had any cute single friends, and I thought of you.”
I realize that if this guy’s related to Jim, he’s also related to Patty, an immediate red flag. And I realize that Patty may also be involved in this event. “Thanks, Becky, but I’m not sure. B graduates tomorrow.”
“And that’s going to take all day?”
I know no one will mind if I go out. B’s graduation is in the morning, and we’re going to lunch afterward. And of course Mom already said she’s worried that I won’t do anything while Liz is gone. I guess watching bad TV with my little sister on a Friday night doesn’t help my argument against that. Mom is still going to yoga class—a couple of nights a week now—and actually suggested tonight that we stretch together and then have “our talk.” I can’t think of anything worse, except for going to a stupid party and feeling awkward. I look for an easy out. “Um, so will Patty be going with us too?” If Patty’s coming, then B’s about to have a late-evening graduation dinner that I can’t miss.
“She’s going out with some new guy, so she can’t make it. Bummer, I know.”
So now, faced with Becky’s Patty-free invitation, I try to figure out what Liz would do. Liz, who just got on a plane to fly over the ocean at a moment’s notice.
“I know you don’t usually go out,” Becky says, “but come on—we just graduated. And I want you to be there.”
I know what Liz would do. “Okay.”
“Okay, really? Awesome! And I think you’ll really like Tim.”
Well, Becky can be excited enough for both of us. And we’ll see if cousin Tim is what I asked the universe for.
On the way to the party, I touch the long crinkly gypsy skirt Mom let me borrow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear it. She pulled it out of the cedar closet off of my room in the basement and said that the skirt was from her wild youth, about which I’d prefer to remain blissfully in the dark.
In the car, Becky wants to talk about us rooming together at UD. Apparently there’s some kind of form she wants to mail in, so I decide I can’t keep my secret any longer. And of course now, in Jim’s car, I’m not just telling Becky, but also Jim and Jim’s cousin Tim, who is nineteen and about to be a sophomore at UD, and who is, in fact, exceptionally cute. He’s got very light brown hair, almost blond, that hangs to his shoulders, and hazel eyes that he uses a lot for direct contact, which makes me nervous.
I hold on to the door handle—maybe I’m thinking of jumping out, rolling and bumping over gravel and concrete to make my escape. “I hate to drop this on you, Becky, but I’m not going to UD.”
“You’re not?’
“No, I applied somewhere else and got in.”
“Are you going to tell us where?” Jim says.
“Chapman.”
“I haven’t heard of that.”
Oh, come out with it, Donna, I say to myself. Then out loud: “It’s a college of mortuary science.”
“Like funeral stuff?” Tim asks, and of course looks me right in the eyes. “Tight.”
“You’re going to be a funeral person?” Jim asks.
“Like with dead people?” Becky asks.
“Usually funerals go with dead people,” Tim says. “Sometimes I paint dead people. It’s cool.” That was a response I wasn’t expecting, and since Mom’s made her opinion of mortuary school painfully clear, it’s especially nice to hear. In addition to cute, Tim just got much more interesting.
“Tim’s an art major,” Jim says, which sounds a lot like the way he described Charlie’s parents as hippies, a sort of I know you’d never believe it, but here’s living proof that these species do exist. Like introducing a dog-headed lady at the circus.
“Everything is art,” Tim says, a far-off look suddenly clouding those hazel eyes. “Death is art. Life is art. Pain is art.”
“Drinking is art,” Jim says. “I hope they have beer.”
“I hope I can find a roommate I like for college.” Becky sighs.
“Hope is art,” Tim says.
I almost giggle, but realize Tim is serious, so I nod seriously with him.
* * *
An hour and a half later, Becky and Jim have disappeared, and I’m sitting next to Tim in the corner of an old basement couch, shared with two soccer players with girls on their laps. The basement smells like beer-soaked carpet. I can’t be sure, but I’m guessing that someone’s parents are not going to be pleased when they get back into town.
Tim has asked me about mortuary school and what I think about the use of color in photographs, and I realize as I tell him, how much I actually like black-and-white pictures. He’s told me all about his drawing and sculpting classes, and the most exquisite flower he’d ever seen in the Mojave Desert; and he has told me I’m the smartest and most fascinating girl at the party.
Also, I’m drinking a Leprechaun, a very sweet concoction of orange juice and something called Blue Maui, which looks a lot like Linnie’s recent hair experiment. And I’m wondering if this drink is about to turn me into a leprechaun, because in addition to smart and fascinating, I’m feeling pretty magical. “I think I’m a little drunk.”
“It’s okay,” Tim says. “You only graduate from high school once.”
“I hope so.”
Tim slips his arm around me. “It’s kind of crowded,” he says, glancing at the soccer players and their lap-lady friends. “You don’t mind?”
His arm feels warm and nice, like the rest of my new leprechaun self. I hope I’m not turning green. “No, I don’t mind.”
“You’re more beautiful than you know,” Tim says.
I fiddle with the silver turtle ring on my index finger.
Half an hour later, Tim rounds me up another Leprechaun and himself some more beer from the keg and then settles back next to me on the couch. He clinks our plastic cups and says, “Cheers.”
We both take a drink, and Tim says, “You’ve got some blue stuff on your lip.”
I reach up to wipe it away, but he grabs my hand, and before I know it, he’s kissing me very softly. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“I think I got it,” he says, and smiles as he pulls back.
I touch my lips. “I think you did.”
Close to midnight, we pile into Becky’s car for the twenty-five minute trek home. Becky is Leprechaun-free, so she’s driving now, and Jim’s in the front with her.
In the backseat, Tim lies down with his head in my lap, his hand cupped right above my knee, under my long skirt. I’m feeling awfully warm, so I pull my jacket off and cover Tim with it, like Mom covers me with a blanket when I fall asleep on the couch. “Have a nice nap,” I say.
“Thanks,” he says, and pats my leg.
I close my eyes and rest my hand on the back of his neck where his hair softens and curls.
Becky puts on a CD with lots of guitar and some ethereal kind of synthesizer effect that seems to fit just perfectly with my new lepr
echaun identity. Jim says, “I love this one.”
I close my eyes and listen. I feel the motor rumble through me as we move faster on the highway.
And I also feel Tim reach farther up my skirt. His fingers play around on my thighs. This is new. This is, wow. He plays over my underwear and then under it. I think I should stop him, but his fingertips are soft and gentle, and I think of guitar strings and that Spanish folk music Mom plays sometimes—love songs. I am an instrument.
“I think Donna’s asleep,” Becky whispers to Jim.
“Tim too,” Jim says. “If you weren’t driving…”
Becky giggles.
Tim strums faster, and I’m floating somewhere. I clutch at the hair on the back of his neck so I don’t float away altogether.
Then he slips a finger inside of me—I’m surprised how easily it glides in—and his thumb makes circles. Now he finger paints. I feel wet, and I imagine shimmery paint where his hand slips and slides. I am a canvas.
“My parents are out with Tim’s parents,” Jim says. “They’ll be home late. You should come in when you drop us off.”
“Should I?” Becky says.
Tim brushes and strokes and dips his brush in the paint well, in and out. Oh my God, what’s happening to my body?
“I think so,” Jim says. “I think that would be a great idea.”
Tim presses his thumb, makes a firm smudge, and all of a sudden I feel like I’m swallowing something delicious on the whole outside of myself, like I’m turned inside out. With my eyes still closed, I see a kaleidoscope of red and blue and purple light. I suck in air and gasp just a little. My eyes snap open.
Tim stops pressing and stroking, rests his hand on the inside of my thigh.
Jim turns around. “Hey there, sleepyhead,” he says, smiling at me like a dad. “We’re almost at your house.”
“Okay,” I say softly, and close my eyes again. Tim squeezes my leg. I squeeze the back of his neck. I melt into the car seat.
On Sunday morning, I can’t believe Liz is gone and I have no one to talk with about what happened. After church, we go to the Golden Nugget for breakfast, and Mom says, “How was the party?”