Putting Makeup on Dead People

by Jen Violi

  I smile at Abe. Don’t worry. You’ll be ready.

  For his lips, I choose a neutral shade with just the palest hint of red. And then I turn to his hands, brushing concealer over the hills and valleys of the wrinkled landscape there. Abe doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d ever had or would want a manicure. So painting the clearest of clear polish on his nails, I assure him that this doesn’t count as a salon visit.

  As I let a fine spray of powder settle on Abe’s face, and step back, I remember JB’s still here. I raise my eyes, just enough to check out the expression on his face. He’s nodding and smiling wide. “You did it, Donna P.”

  Knowing I’ll remember this face, I look down at Abe and whisper, “Thank you.”

  That afternoon, after JB and I share a celebratory glass of fruit punch that looks a little too much like embalming fluid, and after I’ve stored my new Titan in the prep room, we’re set for visitors. Since JB says he could use a little brisk air, he wears his long black coat to handle the outside door, and I take the inside post.

  Standing next to the cream-colored wall, I’m feeling accomplished, proud even, and I have that grounded, solid feeling, ready to be calm and helpful and kind. And then through the door walks Patty, followed by Jim and Becky. They look like different versions of themselves: serious faces and dress-up clothes. Patty’s got on a long black coat and a silky scarf. She and Becky are both wearing panty hose and heels, and Jim’s got a tie on. They look like grown-ups. I wonder if I look like one too.

  All of a sudden, the ground beneath my feet doesn’t feel so sturdy. I feel like I’m back at Woodmont, and I want to hide so Patty can’t tell me that the navy skirt I’m wearing is so last year.

  Patty opens her eyes a little wider when she sees me. “Hey. I didn’t know you were still working here.”

  I nod. I’m not sure if I should ask about school, and I remember they’re here and dressed up for some reason. “So, um, you knew Mr. Carter?”

  Jim nods. “He’s, well, he was our grandpa.”

  Becky reaches over and grabs Jim’s hand. “It’s nice to see you,” she says to me.

  Then Patty’s face crumples, which at first looks like her face when she thinks something is stupid, but which I realize is something else entirely, and before I know it, Patty is crying on my shoulder and hugging me. Or more accurately, I’m hugging her; she feels fragile.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she says.

  Something, very definitely, is happening in my heart. And it’s not the need to hide or escape to the Dead Zone. I find I don’t actually want to escape to anywhere, and that what I’m feeling is compassion, bubbling up from a deep well inside me and filling the empty place in my chest. The strength in my legs comes back, and I feel the ground under my feet. I hold Patty in my arms and whisper, “You don’t have to do anything.”

  I think of Patty strutting around Woodmont like she owned the place, a feeling I never had there. But at this moment, I know I’m in my element. I know Patty and I aren’t so separate. And I understand, I think for the first time, what it means to love the whole person. I don’t think Mr. Brighton was just talking about dead people: he meant the live ones who come to us, too. And it turns out that I can love the whole person after all.

  “But this sucks.” Her voice shakes, and she sniffles.

  “I know,” I say. “That’s why you’re crying.”

  Patty clutches at the back of my sweater, and I let my compassion rise up, maternal and protective, and encircle us both. I stay solid, holding her like earth.

  “I’m right here,” I whisper into her ear.

  Over Patty’s shoulder, Becky and Jim look at the carpet, and after a minute, Jim says, “I need to get some water.”

  Patty pulls away from me and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Me too.” She tugs the scarf off her neck and bunches it up in her hand.

  “Water fountain’s just down there.” I point to the end of the hallway.

  “Thanks,” Jim says.

  “Yes, thanks.” Patty glances up at me with shy eyes. She reaches out and lightly touches my arm. “Thank you.”

  As they head down the hallway, I feel like something has let go inside of me, and I don’t even panic when, a few minutes later, cousin Tim shows up with his parents. I find that I feel only compassion for him as he says hello and hugs me. And then a little disgust as he checks out my ass. Which leads to reassurance that I was wise to walk away from that.

  “I saw our lunch table today,” I tell Charlie that night. We’re sitting on my bed with the hot chocolate Charlie brought for us, and his arm feels good around my shoulders. I explain that Jim and Patty’s grandpa died, and add that I also saw Tim.

  I feel Charlie’s arm tense, and he raises one eyebrow at me.

  I set my hot chocolate on the nightstand and turn back to him. I put my hand on his waist, and I can feel the edge of his jeans, just above his hip. “I still can’t believe I wasted my time with that.” I kiss him. “You are clearly the superior choice.”

  “Then,” he says, smiling at me like he’s up to something, “you won’t mind attending a little party with the superior choice.”

  I’m hoping for some kind of event right here that involves taking our clothes off, but it turns out Charlie wants me to go with him to his family’s version of Thanksgiving, one they call the Harvest Festival, so as not to dishonor the Native Americans. “Beware,” he says. “The festival has the highest concentration of hippies in the Dayton metro area. It can get a little scary.”

  “But you’ll protect me, right?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “Then I’m in.”

  “Thank you,” he says, and kisses me softly, just a brush on my lips—an activity I’ve decided won’t ever get old.

  On the day of Gwen and B’s shower, Mom has the house decorated like its own harvest festival. The house is crawling with cornucopias and Gwen’s equal-parts perky and athletic friends. A lot of B’s friends are here too, holding cans of beer and looking awkward. Uncle Lou and Aunt Irene have Linnie cornered, and I’m sure Uncle Lou is pestering her about Snooter. And there, in all his godlike glory, is Roger, looking like a model in jeans and a white sweater, with his arm around my mother.

  I look across the room at them, standing in the corner of the living room and talking with a very animated Gwen.

  Part of me wants to run over and tell Mom about all the good things happening. About class and work and Charlie. But Roger feels like a force field I don’t want to penetrate. Going over there would mean that I think it’s okay.

  I realize I’m not standing by myself anymore, and see B. He looks toward Mom and tells me, “You’re hurting her, you know. And she’s the only parent you’ve got left.”

  This, I decide, is why bridal showers are usually just for girls. That way, stupid brothers or stupid yogic boyfriends can’t come and ruin them. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”

  “This is my business. She’s my mom too.” I must be the only one who gets this tone from B; otherwise he wouldn’t have so many friends.

  By the grace of God or Sea Turtle, Uncle Lou comes over and reaches up to slap his hand on B’s shoulder. “What the hell is a guy supposed to do at something like this?” He’s got on a pumpkin-colored suit jacket and a tie with a cartoon turkey and the words, I’m For Dinner written below it.

  “How’d you get out of the house with that tie?” I ask.

  “I put it on once I got here.” He winks. “I think I look pretty snappy.”

  “That you do,” B says, and shakes Uncle Lou’s hand. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see if Mom needs help setting food out.” With the word Mom, he shoots me an accusing glance and walks off.

  “Who put the bug in his boxers?” Uncle Lou asks.

  “Guilty,” I say.

  “Yeah, you look guilty.” He pulls on his turkey tie. “So, how’s funeral school?”

  “Good,” I say. “I really like it.”<
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  Uncle Lou takes a step closer to me and looks around, like he’s checking to make sure we’re not being watched. “So Irene tells me she heard from your mom that you’ve seen my sister.”

  “Aunt Selena?”

  “Yeah, that one.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “So how is she?”

  “She’s great. She has this beautiful little house in Yellow Springs. You should go visit her.”

  Aunt Irene sees us and makes a beeline in our direction.

  In a very low voice, Uncle Lou says, “Tell her I said hello, would you?”

  I nod, and feel sad for Uncle Lou. And Aunt Selena.

  When Aunt Irene gets to us, she hugs me and then turns her eyes to Uncle Lou. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.”

  “Speaking of which, I’m starving.” Uncle Lou strains his neck toward the kitchen. “Where’s this food your brother was talking about?”

  After food and before presents, Mom catches me on the way out of the bathroom.

  For a second, we look awkwardly at each other. There’s so much to talk about, I can’t think of anything to say.

  She hugs me and touches the sleeve of my sweater. “You look nice. I love that dark green on you.”

  I look down at my sweater and khaki skirt and remember something I can ask her. “Oh, you know, I was wondering if you had a dress I could borrow. I’m going to a party. A harvest festival thing.” I neglect to mention that it happens to be on the same day as Thanksgiving, when she’ll likely expect me to be here instead.

  Her eyes seem to get brighter, and she smiles. “Oh, I know just the one. Same color as your sweater. Let’s go take a quick look right now.” Mom’s not one to leave her party guests, so I know she’s excited I’m asking her for something. And it’s a relief to discuss something easy. She takes me downstairs to the Wild Youth closet.

  I say prayers of thanks as she slides several sparkly pantsuits to the side, and I breathe in the cedar smell of the closet, where I used to stash myself behind long plastic coverings and shoe boxes when B and I played hide-and-seek.

  “You know,” she says, “I saw Bob Brighton at the Kroger, and he told me you’re doing a wonderful job.”

  “Oh.”

  “I told him I wasn’t surprised.” She smiles at me and slides the plastic cover off a dark green, knee-length dress with a flared skirt. “How about this one?” It has a scooped neck and the fabric looks a little like snakeskin, but it’s shiny and ripply, like water. It’s perfect.

  “I love it.” I reach down and pull out the skirt to see how far it stretches.

  “I wore this to my first New Year’s Eve party with your dad. We danced the whole night. The skirt’s really good for that.”

  I let the skirt fall. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to wear it?”

  Mom looks at the dress and takes a breath. She hands it to me. “What good is a dress if no one’s wearing it? It’s been shut up in here for too long.” She puts her hand on my cheek. “It’s okay to give it some new memories.”

  I want to reach up and touch her hand, but I can’t. Instead, I make my voice cheerful. “Thanks, Mom. This’ll be great.” I slide the plastic back over the dress. “Let’s get back upstairs. We don’t want to miss them opening presents.”

  “No,” Mom says, slowly closing the cedar doors to her wild youth.

  Abe Carter, 81

  Cause of Death: Stroke

  Surviving Immediate Family:

  Sons: Paul, Greg

  Daughter: Laura Plintz

  Grandchildren: Jim, Patty, and Time (ex-boyfriend)

  Makeup: Sandy Beige concealer, Pure Sand cover-up cream, Neutral Glow lip color

  Clothing: Hunter green wool fisherman’s sweater

  Casket: Extra-long birch special

  Special Guests in Attendace:

  Becy Bell

  Funeral Incidents:

  I comfort Patty.

  I survive brief, creep hug from Tim.

  On the way out, Patty lets me know that I look better in brighter colors.

  twenty-one

  Mom calls the day before Thanksgiving and says, “We’re doing dinner at four.”

  Out the window of the yellow room, the bare tree branch waves to me as the light fades from the sky. I feel a little sick to my stomach as I say, “Oh, actually, tomorrow’s that party I told you about. At Charlie’s parents’ house.”

  “Charlie? Are you two going out?”

  “Yeah.” I press my hand onto the cold glass. “I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

  “Honey, that’s great. You should come by after the party.”

  “I think the party goes late.” Which sounds as lame as it feels to say.

  “Oh.” Mom sounds disappointed, and I feel like a jerk. “Should I save you some stuffing?”

  “Yeah, that would be great.”

  “We’ll miss you, Donna,” she says. “You know that, right?”

  “I know.” From the corner of the window, I feel a tiny draft of the winter air. Stepping away from it, I put my hand in the pocket of my sweat pants and wonder when the heat will kick on.

  On the afternoon of Thanksgiving/Hippie Harvest Festival, I’m waiting for Charlie and watching PBS on the little TV that JB donated to me and the yellow room. Some classically trained British actor narrates a special about crocodiles, and the low voice and ambient noise help my shoulders relax. I don’t want to be nervous about the party or meeting Charlie’s parents, and animal shows tend to comfort me. In the two years before he died, Dad and I watched them together.

  It started late one Friday night when I was twelve and counting sheep couldn’t stop me from worrying that no one would ask me to dance at my friend Jenny’s boy-girl party. From the bedroom I shared with Linnie, I heard the distant TV buzz and wandered down the hallway toward the blue light in the living room. Dad was sitting in his paisley pajamas on a corner of the couch, and turned when he heard me step on the creaky floor spot in the doorway. “I can’t sleep,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t get into trouble for still being up.

  “Me neither.” Dad held out his arm to me. “Might as well sit down with me and the cheetahs.”

  I curled up next to him, even more wide awake with the prospect of just me-and-Dad time. As we watched the sleek muscled cats run in slow motion, Dad made tsking noises. Maybe he wanted to run that fast too.

  “Why can’t you sleep, Daddy?”

  “Well,” he said, eyes on the TV, “your dad didn’t get a raise at work, and he should have.”

  Something fragile in his voice made me nervous. I scooted an inch closer to him and clutched at a soft piece of his pajama top. “What are you going to do?”

  He looked down at my hand and then put his own over it. I liked how big his hand was and how it felt warm on my fingers. He turned to me and smiled, like he just remembered something. “I’m still going to do my job. And I’m still going to be good at it.”

  I nodded. “I bet you’re the best bridge seller they’ve got.”

  Dad laughed and squeezed my shoulder. “Maybe I should work for you. Got any friends who need some steel beams?” We settled in with the big cats until we started to doze off.

  I think Dad would have liked this crocodile special I’m watching now. Even with those stubby legs, they can actually run pretty fast on land.

  When the phone rings, I know it’s Charlie downstairs. At the back door, he stands all lanky and handsome in a brown jacket over a thin cobalt sweater. “Damn,” I say, appraising him and smiling. “Let’s stay in and make out to nature specials.” I take his hand and lead him back upstairs.

  “That does sound like a better idea.”

  “Maybe we can harvest and then make out.” I smile.

  In the yellow room, I grab my jacket and purse and go to turn off the TV. I pause to hear British Actor Man explaining how crocodiles let out this noise called a bellow. He describes it as their own unique cry, a deep rumbling, like building thunder. He says they must do i
t for no other reason than it’s their noise, something that identifies them just as them, and not some other creature.

  My mind jumps back to that night watching the cheetahs with Dad. Around two a.m., when he tucked me back into my bed, he whispered, “The only person who needs to believe in you is you.” He kissed my forehead. “And you’ve always got me in your corner.”

  I wonder now if Dad just needed to say those words out loud, if that night he was reassuring himself as much as he was me. I look at Charlie, and my chest feels full—my corner has turned out to be really well staffed.

  “Ready, Super Croc?” Charlie asks.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  Outside, the air smells like snow. I remember I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, and my stomach growls. Or maybe it’s the sound of my own distinct bellow, rumbling up from the center of me and demanding to be heard.

  On the way there, Charlie tells me that his mom and dad, who he calls Erin and Gabe, are really excited to meet me. I’m looking forward to meeting them too, even if I feel a little intimidated. Charlie’s told me that Erin and Gabe are mega-smart and always learning something new. Like when Erin learned how to ice-skate a few years back, and not just circle-round-the-rink skating, but things like double salchows and leaps and spins and stuff. And she’s actually pretty good. And while she skates, Gabe grows herbs in the kitchen window and cans things they plant in the backyard.

  Once I learned how to make pot holders out of multicolored pieces of panty hose, but that doesn’t seem quite on par.

  When we arrive, Charlie’s parents’ house is already buzzing with people, and Charlie leads me through them for a quick tour. Gabe and Erin have outdone themselves. Every room holds at least one candlelit table full of food and drinks—brown rice risotto with asparagus, butternut squash soup, pumpkin bread with maple sage butter, Crock Pots full of hot spiced cider. But my favorite spot is the enormous backyard, twinkling lights lining the trees and shed, and in the middle, a blazing fire pit with little benches all around.