Putting Makeup on Dead People

by Jen Violi

  “Mom, I’m in the room.”

  “Bring yourself right home after the movie. And have fun.”

  * * *

  In line for tickets at the Neon, I apologize about our conversation with Mom.

  “No biggie,” he says. “Moms will be moms.” Then he kisses me on the cheek, close to my ear, and whispers, “And we don’t have to listen to them.”

  In the theater, after Tim’s picked us seats toward the back, about ten giggly older women in red hats and feather boas sit down behind us. All of a sudden it feels like a whole row of moms-gone-wild have come to chaperone us. I find myself sitting up straighter, although Tim doesn’t seem to notice.

  The movie consists of extended shots of rocks and swimming pools and people with very serious faces staring at rocks and swimming pools and each other. Watching the movie consists of my constantly moving Tim’s hand out of the center of my lap and worrying that the red-hat ladies are watching. I’m trying to enjoy the warm feeling of Tim’s hand on mine when he gives up reaching for anything else, but I feel distracted.

  I’m guessing I have a serious face right now, too, attempting to figure out how Mom got through this awful movie unscathed.

  Sitting in our driveway with the car windows rolled down, Tim inhales through his nose and closes his eyes. He smiles.

  “What?”

  “The air feels warm. Dry. Like the Mojave.” He turns and looks at me. “It’s quiet there, and romantic. Kind of like it is right now.”

  I watch Tim lean toward me, and I close my eyes as he kisses me. I kiss him back, and our lips feel soft against each other’s. I wonder if he can tell that my mouth feels as dry as the Mojave, and try not to worry about it. I also wonder which window Mom is standing at. I’m sure she heard Tim’s car pull up. He reaches under my T-shirt.

  I grab his hand, put mine on top of it. “My mom is right inside.”

  “So?”

  “So, she could come out.” I wonder why messing around was so much easier in a car with two other people. Although, I guess it was three. I almost forgot the leprechaun. At this moment, I don’t feel magical, relaxed, or particularly beautiful. I feel aggravated and excited and nervous.

  Under my shirt, Tim inches his hand up farther, and I let him. With his other hand, he squeezes my thigh, very gently. “So do you want me to stop?” He whispers into my ear and licks it. “Should I stop?”

  “Yes.”

  I think he’s surprised, and actually I am too. My tingling body does not want him to stop, but my mind does, and as per usual, I can’t access my heart for a reliable opinion. I look down at my feet and the coffee-stained Styrofoam cup peeking out from under the seat, and I think of Charlie and his stainless-steel mug. From the cup and the empty plastic soda bottles next to me, I see that Tim does not follow the one-container rule.

  Now outside of my T-shirt, both of Tim’s hands rest on his jeans. I notice they look strong and smooth. And tan, like Dad’s. I think of the handmade paper in Liz’s basement. Maybe the universe did deliver him to me. I reach over and touch one of his hands. “Next time, maybe we can go somewhere else.”

  “Sure,” he says, but he’s looking past me out the window at something in the darkness.

  When I got out of the car, Tim said he’d call me on Saturday, but now it’s Sunday, and I still haven’t heard from him. I’m not sure if I should call him, but I want to.

  Linnie spends all day out with Snooter, and when they come home, I’m sitting on the porch paging through Mom’s gardening magazine and daydreaming about Tim and his lips. Mom hears Snooter’s car and comes to the door holding one of her new yoga books. This is the first time I’ve been around when Linnie brings Snooter into the house, and from the looks of what’s approaching, this is going to be an exciting encounter.

  Linnie’s long hair hangs in green-and-black stripes—a little painful on the eyes right next to Snooter’s bright red spikes. It’s like Christmas and Death had babies. The screen door bangs behind them.

  “You can’t make me fix it. We did each other’s.” Linnie stands with her arms at her sides, feet planted firmly in her combat boots.

  Mom holds the yoga book to her chest and looks closely at Linnie’s head. I can tell she’s doing one of her breathing exercises. She steps back, nods, and looks at Snooter. “The green looks good. Vivid. Emerald tones.”

  “Excellent,” Snooter says. “Thanks. I appreciate the feedback.”

  Linnie looks like she’s not sure if she should smile or not, and I understand because I don’t know either. There are lots of reactions I could have predicted from Mom, but complimenting the shade of hair was not one of them.

  Snooter turns to me. “Hey, you must be the big D.”

  “Or Donna is fine.”

  “Right on.” Snooter’s eyelids are droopy, like he’s a little sleepy, but a happy kind of sleepy, like some sort of Seven Dwarfs blend. “You’ve got some cool chicks in your fam, Lin.”

  “While you have this hair,” Mom says to Linnie, “I’d like you to wear a hat to church. We can go out and you can choose one.” Mom’s voice is very calm.

  Linnie squints at Mom and then nods, with a little hint of a smile. “Okay.”

  When Linnie and Snooter go inside, Mom looks at me, and both of us crack up at the same time.

  “That is a look,” Mom whispers, giggling. “How did I do? I’m working on peaceful responses.”

  I’m surprised Mom wants to know what I think, but I like it. And I can tell she is working on something. “Then I’d say you did fine.”

  “Thanks.” She wipes her eyes and sits down across from me. “So, have you heard from Tim?”

  I shake my head.

  “You can do better anyway.”

  “You think he’s not going to call.” My voice is sharp. I am not, apparently, working on peaceful responses. “He’s going to call.”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t.”

  “You didn’t have to say it.” I don’t know if I’m mad at Tim for not calling, or Mom for deciding that’s okay, or me for caring at all. For caring that he might think I’m some kind of prude, that I might have ruined my shot to have a cute college boyfriend or any boyfriend at all.

  Mom inhales and exhales and pats my leg. Then she stands up and goes inside.

  A few hours later, right before dinner, Tim does call, and it turns out he’s right outside. “Let’s go,” he says. “We need ice cream.”

  I go out to the kitchen, where Mom’s baking potatoes and steaming broccoli. “Tim’s here,” I say. “I’m going to skip dinner.”

  Before she can answer, I run out the front door.

  Sitting in the front seat of Tim’s car, I feel like I just sprang myself from jail, and I giggle.

  “What’s so funny?” Tim says.

  “Everything,” I shout.

  Tim laughs with me and drives us to Young’s Dairy, out in Yellow Springs, where it smells like farm. Once, Dad took Linnie and me here to pet the goats. Linnie was terrified and wouldn’t go near the mama goat. I was terrified too, but I did it anyway. As I touched the goat’s coarse coat and felt her shaking, I realized she could commiserate. I felt so proud of myself when Dad smiled at me and said, “That’s my girl.”

  This time goats aren’t on the agenda. Tim and I sit at the benches outside Young’s, eating double-scoop cones of the best homemade ice cream in the Dayton area.

  One scoop in, Tim gets a call on his cell phone. “I’ve got to take this.”

  “Okay,” I say, but he’s already started to walk away.

  Sitting alone on the bench, I tune in to the sounds around me—goats bleating, leaves rustling in the breeze, a woman’s laugh that sounds a lot like a cackle, and a very familiar voice. “You come here often?”

  I turn and see Charlie holding his own cone and sporting a significant chocolate mustache. I smile at him and all of the sudden wonder if there’s something on my face, and how I look. I sit up and straighten my skirt. “Sometimes. You?
”

  “I’m here with my mom and dad. We’re heading up the road to buy corn from some guy they met, and I convinced them we needed ice cream before corn.”

  “Two great tastes that go great together.”

  Charlie laughs. He reaches over and touches the scalloped sleeve of my shirt. “I like this.”

  Where his fingers brush my shoulder, my skin feels like it’s about two hundred degrees. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” He licks his ice cream, and I’m glad I’m already sitting down, because I’m feeling a little unstable in the knee joints.

  Then behind Charlie, I see Tim heading toward us.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say.

  “Hello, sudden.”

  “I’m, um, here on a date,” I blurt, and wish I hadn’t. I make myself stand up.

  “Oh.” His eyes change, but I can’t pinpoint how. “Well, have fun.”

  I smile a little and walk fast to Tim. Tim didn’t seem to care that I was talking with Charlie, because he doesn’t say anything but “Ready to go?”

  I also try not to care that I was talking with Charlie as Tim and I head back into downtown Yellow Springs, with its cute little bookstores and Full of Beans Coffee House and shops with big iron dragons and purple cloths draped in window boxes.

  Right past 3-D Comics, Tim takes me into this combination thrift/consignment/antique store. We split up and wander around through packed displays of scarves and knickknacks and books and old pictures. While I’m gawking at a whole set of wineglasses of the saints—each glass with a picture of a saint and a little history—I feel someone stand close behind me and a hand go over my eyes.

  “I hit the mother lode,” Tim says. “Keep your eyes closed, and turn around.” When I do, he takes my hands and puts something that feels squarish into them. “Okay, take a look.”

  I look down and see an ornate cherrywood box with a little cross on top and the letters rip engraved in gold.

  “Open it,” he says.

  Inside the box is a stack of black-and-white photographs of people, maybe from the early 1900s, all dressed up, and dead, in their coffins.

  “What is this?”

  Tim explains that he learned in his photography class that people used to take pictures of their dead family members, like a last shot for the photo album. He shows me the backs of the pictures, and the faint handwritten names of each person. They all share the same last name. “Black-and-white photos—your favorite, right? Do you like them?”

  I gingerly touch the old pictures, looking at the close-up shot of some woman in pearls who was probably someone’s grandma. “They are totally creepy,” I say. “And I love them.”

  “Good,” Tim says. “I’m getting them for you.”

  Later that night, I fix myself a plate of cold chicken from the fridge and walk down the stairs to the basement smiling, still feeling giggly from my spontaneous date, and trying not to worry that I’m thinking about Tim and Charlie both.

  I find Mom sitting at my desk, holding my box from Tim in one hand and the pictures in the other. She’s frowning. “Donna?”

  I explain the pictures to her just how Tim explained to me, but that doesn’t make her any happier. “Honey,” she says, “we need to talk. Now.”

  I look down at the chicken, which doesn’t seem so appetizing anymore. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” I point to the gift from Tim. “Those are beautiful. They’re art.”

  “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you.” She looks at the pictures, puts them back into the box, and shakes her head. “You’ve gotten so far out, I don’t know where you are anymore. I don’t know how I let this happen.”

  “Let what happen?”

  She sets the box on the desk and looks up into my eyes. “Since your Dad died, it’s like you’ve disappeared.”

  My legs feel shaky underneath me, like they might just decide to stop holding me up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Honey, it’s time for you to let your life be normal and happy. To be part of our family.” Mom stands and walks to me. She puts her hands on my shoulders and holds them tight. “I need you here with us. In the land of the living.”

  I try to wriggle out of her grasp, but I can’t. I feel helpless, holding a plate of chicken and listening to the pain in Mom’s voice, watching her eyes, desperate and full, right in front of me.

  “It’s not too late for you to go to UD.”

  “Yes,” I say, feeling my hands tremble, like I could drop the plate at any second, “it is.” I close my eyes, willing myself to disappear, like Mom thinks I already have.

  I feel her hands let go of my shoulders. I feel where her fingers were pressed into my skin.

  When I open my eyes, she’s still standing there, staring at me. “I don’t know what to do, Donna. What do I do?”

  I stare back at her. “Leave me alone,” I say, and then louder, “Leave me alone,” until I’m yelling it and until she does and I’m standing by myself with a plate of chicken I can’t even think about eating and a box full of dead people I don’t know.

  On Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday, it’s a relief to escape to Brighton Brothers for work. Home feels like a library, but significantly more hostile and with a lot fewer books. Mom and I say nothing to each other, and when I’m at home, I stay in my room as much as I can.

  On Wednesday night, when Tim’s name pops up in the window of my phone, I answer quickly, eager and hopeful for another adventure with him, away from here.

  “You’ll never believe where I am,” he says.

  “The Mojave Desert?” I hope he thinks I’m as funny as I do.

  “Yeah, how’d you guess?” Tim sounds more surprised than playful.

  “You talk about it all the time,” I start to explain. “Wait a minute, are you really in the Mojave Desert?”

  “Totally.”

  “Are you coming back?”

  “Yeah.” Tim sounds far away, and I guess, literally, he is.

  “Do you know when?” I hope he doesn’t notice that my voice is shaking.

  “When it’s time. And who knows? Donna, the desert is a fickle mistress.”

  I have no idea what that means, and I’m pretty sure that Tim doesn’t either. Actual pieces of information I discover are as follows: He must again find the most beautiful flower; the desert is hotter than he remembers, and so is his old friend Tina, who hopped into the car at the last minute. Tim tells me I should seize the moment while he’s gone. I wonder if that’s because he’s found someone else he wants to seize.

  I feel confused and abandoned. I take out the orange candle Liz gave me and set it on a dish on my desk. When I light it, I smell the olive oil and realize my fingers have oil on them too. I rub the oil into my hands and watch the flame dance and jump like it’s reaching for something it can’t quite grasp.

  The next day, Mr. Brighton asks if I’d like to sit in during an arrangement conference. I agree, if he thinks it’s okay. He tells me that the same rules apply as when greeting the family and friends during the wake: Be polite, kind, respectful. And let him do the talking.

  Two sisters, Mrs. Jane LaRue and Mrs. Carla Banniker, will come in for the conference, to set up the wake and services for their father, Jake Dixon, who was eighty-seven. His body is being embalmed in Florida and then sent up here, where he lived most of his life. Mr. Brighton knows the sisters; he did the services for their mother two years ago. They came in with Jake for the arrangements then. After that, Jake moved south.

  Later that morning, Mr. Brighton and I walk Mrs. LaRue and Mrs. Banniker into his office. I guess they are in their sixties. Mrs. Banniker is plump and short like Mrs. B, and Mrs. LaRue is short and rail-thin, but from the basic shapes of their faces and the sound of their voices, it’s clear they’re sisters.

  Mr. Brighton introduces me as his assistant, Ms. Parisi. I nod and smile, just a little, as we sit down at a round table in the corner of the office.

  “Oh, God, Janie,�
�� Mrs. Banniker says, staring at me. “She looks just like those pictures of Mom when she was young.” She starts to cry. “Both of them now. It’s just us.”

  “I know, honey,” Mrs. LaRue says, and smiles at me. “Our mother was a beautiful woman. This is a compliment.”

  I want to ask if Jake ever left their mother to go to the Mojave Desert on the spur of the moment, but I figure that doesn’t fall under the category of polite. So instead I say, “Thank you.”

  “Bob, do you still have Mom’s paperwork? Because we’d like the same arrangements, if that’s possible. They were two peas in a pod.”

  Mr. Brighton nods and pulls out a folder from his binder.

  Mrs. Banniker starts to cry again, and says, “I’m sorry,” between sobs. “He was our daddy.”

  Mr. Brighton slides a box of tissues toward her.

  “You don’t have to apologize,” I say. In her plump adult face, I see the shadows of a young girl, and I put my hand on her arm. “It just hurts.” I’m surprised at how easily the words come and that they’re just right, that I know exactly how to touch her arm and not say anything else.

  Mrs. Banniker’s breathing gets easier. She wipes her eyes and blows her nose.

  At the door on the way out, Mrs. Banniker shakes Mr. Brighton’s hand and then mine. “Thank you both. So much.”

  Through the front window, Mr. Brighton and I watch them drive away. “You’ve got a knack, assistant.”

  I let myself smile just a little, sensing that I brought at least a little comfort to Jake Dixon’s daughters. I’ve finally found something that fits me, something I’m good at. It’s strange but true. I know my way around a funeral. I’m a natural.

  Friday is the Fourth of July, and I’m off work. Late that afternoon, I tell Mom it’s been a long week at the funeral home and maybe I’ll meet her later at the barbecue B is having at his new apartment, which will eventually be B and Gwen’s apartment. I lie and say I might bring Tim after we go to another party that night. Mom says, “Donna, please be careful.”

  I want to tell her that I am actually several states and a whole desert away from danger, but instead I nod.