“It could be anyone.”
The director waited.
“Someone might need directions.”
“Don’t worry. We’re prepared to handle those inquiries, Father.”
“But I want to know.”
The director stood there, impassive, his quiet affect throwing Whiting’s anxiety into high relief.
“If anyone calls for me, anyone at all, please have someone come for me. It’s very important.”
The director nodded and turned to leave. Whiting watched as he went, mentally urging him on to deliver the message about the expected call. When the door eased shut, he turned back to the room.
There was no kneeler at his mother’s coffin, and so he did not approach or retreat, but stood at a discreet distance, his body poised in the gesture of someone contemplating a religious relic. He turned and surveyed the room: its tinted glass windows, the severe wood podium provided in place of an altar, the small, modern cross that hung on an adjacent wall—easily removed if circumstances required.
The room felt empty and Whiting made a mental list of the things—absent here—that would have been in a Catholic church: statues of saints, holy water, votive candles, the stations of the cross, the altar. He sat down in the first row of chairs before Lillian’s coffin.
Images of his childhood—all of them sad—flooded into his mind. Whiting had been a good, well-behaved boy in a house that offered no alternative behavior. His sins were minor. Still, they were a source of burden his mother revisited throughout his life. Even if his memories had been happy, he could not escape the contrast, the loss and silence that filled their last years. He considered Lillian’s unpredictability. Her demands. Their visits were often exhausting.
But it was their mutual disintegration that distressed him most: the shy child and beautiful actress slowly replaced by an aging priest and his eccentric mother. And now, even that was gone.
He wondered what he would do about his life. I can’t go on the way I am now. And yet, the very idea of turning away from all that was familiar frightened him immeasurably. How tenuous the connection. How easily it is removed. And then what? What could stop this drift from life … its disconnection … its loss?
Dreams of his mother had occupied him for the past three nights—dreams that always woke him, yet were mercifully bearable. She was at home, in her kitchen. Her skin had a flat and dusty pallor. There were circles beneath her eyes—the palest shade of blue—as though a slight bruise was fading. Seeing her in his dreams, he knew that anyone else looking at her would have known that she was ill. I should have recognized the signs. I could have gotten her help at St. Theresa’s. And yet, when she looked at him in these dreams, she was neither frightening nor welcoming. She never spoke.
In one dream he called out when he saw her. She turned, and they studied one another’s eyes, looking for something they could not express—or find. He thought about her calls to him—the clippings she sent detailing violent deaths and torture. She always worried about intruders or about something happening to one of her pups. She had been spared all of this in the end.
“God is merciful,” he said.
As the hour of the service approached, the mourners began to arrive. Each time the door opened, Whiting looked up expectantly. Each time, he was disappointed.
Because he wanted to be sure to see everyone who arrived, because he was sure that Nikolai would be there at any moment, Whiting greeted people from the rear of the room.
“Both you and your mom are in my prayers.” Clark Teasdale from St. Theresa’s offered his condolences.
“Thank you.” Whiting glanced out the door and saw a man with black hair crossing the carpeted atrium of the funeral home. Nikolai! His heart sped up. He wanted to rush from the room to greet him. His lips went dry. As the man neared the open door, he saw that he did not walk with Nikolai’s effortless movement. But even as he realized this, he fought the knowledge. The man glanced up as he passed. Whiting saw that he was a stranger.
When Whiting turned back to Teasdale, he realized that he had stopped talking, his face registering the affront. Whiting did a mental tally of what had just happened and tried to remedy the situation.
“I’m sorry, something caught my eye. Please, you were saying ….”
“It’s nothing.” Teasdale raised his chin and shook Whiting’s hand—a face-saving gesture. “Again, thank you for your visits to my mother. If she was in better health, she’d be here to thank you herself.”
“I’m just not myself yet. Please, continue.”
“Another time, Father.” Teasdale offered one last nod before taking a seat with a small group of employees of St. Theresa’s.
Whiting knew it was pointless to say more. A wave of exasperation washed over him. He felt trapped. Everything I do is wrong. No matter how careful I am, no matter the personal cost, there is always someone nearby to take offense. Even at my mother’s funeral! Flooded by self-pity, he squeezed his eyes hard to avoid crying.
A brunette woman with a boy of about ten stepped up to Whiting. She stood behind the boy and held both his shoulders to maneuver him forward—a human shopping cart. She wore a form fitting purple t-shirt and khaki pants. The boy wore jeans and a white t-shirt that depicted a wolf howling at the moon.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Whiting had no idea who the woman was. “Please forgive me, but I don’t remember your name.”
“Oh you don’t know me. I used to live upstairs from your mom. But you and I never met.”
Whiting smiled and nodded. Then wondered—was this the boy Mama’s dog bit?
“She was so sweet.”
He considered the description.
“Little Randy here always wanted to go down and see her, every chance he got.”
Whiting looked down at the boy and smiled.
“He’d say, ‘let’s go down and see that old lady and her dogs.’ And down we’d go.”
That old lady and her dogs. How could his mother—once so beautiful—be described this way? “Yes, well, she loved visitors.” He could think of nothing else to say.
Half a dozen priests from the Sacred Wounds of Christ were the last to enter the room. An attendant closed the doors behind them. Whiting thought to stop him, but halted, mid-gesture. Nikolai was not coming. He swayed slightly as the knowledge settled in his heart and brain. He will not come. He forced the idea from his mind. He knew that it was true, but he could not consider it in his present circumstance. I can’t think about that. There isn’t enough time. Not now. Even as he pushed images of Nikolai from his mind, he knew that he would never have enough time. Never in this life. Never.
He greeted each of the priests in turn. Jerry, last in line, stepped forward. Whiting hugged him tight as tears dropped heavily from his eyes onto Jerry’s shoulder.
“I’m so sorry. I lost my balance. Please forgive me.”
Jerry held him close, allowed his confession even as his embrace reassured that their friendship would endure. “You are my brother in Christ,” he whispered. “And you are my friend.” Jerry pulled back and held Whiting’s gaze. “All is well between us, Sam.”
Whiting dried his eyes, fought to regain his composure. “I have so much I need to tell you. Perhaps we can talk next week?”
“Let’s make it soon. I’m going back to New Hampshire.”
“What? When?”
“A week. Maybe ten days. The doctors want to run a few more tests. After that, I’m free to go.”
“So the cancer … is it gone?”
“Much smaller. Sleeping. But not gone.”
Whiting furrowed his brow as he tried to discern the implications. “Then you’re ….”
“It’s all right, Sam. Really.” He squeezed Whiting’s hand. “I’m ready to go home.”
The funeral director stepped forward and introduced the minister who would officiate at the funeral.
“Please accept my condolences, Father,” said the minister.
&
nbsp; Whiting shook the man’s hand and thanked him. The minister had a sheet of white, ruled notebook paper tucked into his prayer book. He referred to it as he stood there.
“Now, your mother,” He glanced at the paper. “practiced no particular religion, is that correct?”
Whiting nodded.
“And you are her only child?”
He nodded again.
“Your father … is he?”
Whiting interrupted. “My parents divorced decades ago and I haven’t seen my father since then. My mother lived alone. She had no other relatives. I realize you didn’t know my mother, but surely ….” He broke off. He was afraid that he might sob. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—”
“No apology needed. My parents are gone too. I realize this is a deeply upsetting time. I only wanted to make sure.”
As the organist began a hymn that Whiting did not know, he heard the door open and shut and turned, hoping that it would be Nikolai. Instead, he saw Joseph and Leah, accompanied by three of the clowns and two of the acrobats, slip in and sit in the back row. He was touched that they, at least, had come to pay their final respects. His eyes misted, and he nodded an acknowledgment, then turned back to the front as the minister began his remarks.
“We are gathered here to celebrate the life of Lillian Whiting. Dear God, bless your sheep. You receive her with open arms, we know. Please, we ask that You welcome Lillian to her eternal rest, and that You also give comfort to her friends and family who are left behind.” The minister cleared his throat.
“Let’s recite the twenty-third Psalm, shall we? It’s on page seventy-six of your books.” Whiting was taken aback by the informality of the minister’s remarks.
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me ….”
“Lillian leaves a son, many friends, caring neighbors, and, of course, her beloved dogs,” he continued. “She had been an actress, and in later years, turned to working with animals, performing for children and, I understand, she even appeared once on the Johnny Carson show.”
The minister looked up and smiled. Whiting was glad that he had mentioned his mother’s career. He had given the funeral director a short history of her life and he had wanted the people from the circus to hear it—to know his mother had been a performer, too.
A soprano somewhere behind Whiting began singing A Mighty Fortress is Our God. The minister resumed his remarks, and spoke of Lillian’s warmth and kindness. His statements had the generality of a distant acquaintance who wants, nonetheless, to add some commentary.
“We know this is hard for those who knew and loved her. God’s grace and peace be with you.”
The minister closed his book, bowed his head and recited a free-verse poem or prayer—Whiting was not sure which.
“And that concludes our service,” said the minister. “The burial will be private. Thank you for coming.”
The service had taken only eighteen minutes. Six pall bearers—employees of the mortuary—moved to prepare Lillian’s coffin. The minister shook Whiting’s hand and left through a side door.
Whiting stood near the back of the hearse as the pallbearers descended the stairs. Is it heavy? The men worked to keep the coffin level as they placed it on the wheeled track and slid it forward into the hearse.
Bending forward to touch his mother’s coffin one last time, he was overwhelmed by the scent of flowers that rose up from the back of the hearse—their terrible sweetness, like ruin. They’ll never get the smell of flowers out of that car. And then: Why would anyone even care?
“I am in constant, messy pain. I don’t know how I can possibly live with it, and yet, I can’t imagine that it will ever leave.” Sarah’s voice was flat, detached—as someone recounting a dream with great difficulty. Her face was stretched and dry, her hair pulled so tight that she looked slightly oriental. Her eyes were bloodshot, the skin beneath them sunken and dark.
The late afternoon sun filtered through the partially opened blinds. Long, horizontal shadows gave the room an abstract appearance, like a movie set. Sarah sat in the guest chair across from Whiting’s desk. The tacks below the armrests shone softly in the low, warm light—burnished by all the hands that had wandered nervously over them through the years.
“I always imagined that if it didn’t work out between us, I’d just walk away. Hurt? Of course. Maybe I’d be heartbroken. But never begging, never thinking that I’d die if he wasn’t in my life. How could he say he didn’t want me to go with him?” Her nose ran, and she wiped it on the back of her sleeve.
Whiting’s expression remained impassive.
“And to think of how I acted!” She played with her braid, shifting the tension from one side of her face to the other. “Jesus Christ, what a scene!” Her inflection took on a Bette Davis quality.
Sarah had often referred to dramatic instances in her life as Bette Davis moments and would tell them with a flawless Davis inflection. But her accent now was not offered as entertainment. Nor was it self-parody: she was slipping into a girlfriend performance, which he found both frightening and alluring.
“Mother Frances was there. Of course she’d show up at the worst moment. Saw the whole thing for herself: my big showdown with Nikolai in front of the volunteers and board members.” She threw her head back, looking at the ceiling.
“So now I’ve lost Nikolai and my job. All in one spectacular fucking evening.”
“Do you have a plan? Where will you go?”
“I have friends in Iowa City. There’s a big hospital there.” She let out a long sigh. “At this point I don’t much care as long as I’m away from anything that would remind me of this place. Or him.”
Sarah grabbed a handful of tissues from the desktop dispenser and rubbed at her red and swollen eyes. “All my life, I thought I was driven. Always pushing myself. And for what? This job?” She pulled at the upholstery tacks on the arm of the chair, made quick figure eights around them with her index finger. “But then Nikolai happened. And it was like amphetamines for a speed freak.”
She slapped the flat of her palm against the arm of the chair. “I had it all figured out … our future … my dreams of how it would be. Christ, when I think about the way I threw myself at him, I just want to die of embarrassment.”
“If someone would have said to me, even six months ago, that I, Sarah James, would plead with a man, that I would humiliate myself in front of a crowd, I would never have believed it.”
The light deepened the shadows beneath her eyes. Her face was thin and drawn. “Love is dangerous, Sam. Even if someone tells you things won’t work out, you won’t believe it. You think your life isn’t like anyone else’s.” She exhaled a quick, mirthless laugh—more a breath than an articulation. “The hell it isn’t.” She sighed deeply. “But where does love go? If it existed, can it really be gone?”
“Love is a gift, Sarah. It is one of life’s great mysteries.”
She dropped her hand onto the arm of the chair and leveled her gaze at him. “Oh please.” Her expression hardened, grew coarse. “Don’t patronize me with that seminary pabulum. Love is a drug, Sam—the ultimate, destructive drug. It’s an addiction without a cure.”
“It changes us.” He answered quietly.
“Well, that’s insightful. Come on, Sam, isn’t there something you can say that doesn’t sound like it came from someone else?”
He felt no challenge from her dismissal.
“If they could bottle love and what it does to you, the way it makes you feel, then, overnight, heroin and crack would disappear from the streets,” she continued. “But it would be worse. Because then people would do anything—and I mean anything—to get it. They’d abandon their kids, sell their futures, kill their mothers, anything, ju
st to feel it again.”
Whiting winced at her description, but she didn’t notice.
“But there’s one minor problem. This drug kills you when you stop taking it. And it eats you alive if you stay on it. Either way, you die. Either way, you realize you were never really alive before it came along and that you’ll never be alive again until it comes back.”
Whiting sat very still. He felt splintered, as though his bones had been broken and his marrow scooped out. But, he told himself, over time, love is replaced by other sustenance. None as powerful. But still ….
Silence descended on the room and a great fatigue—the exhaustion of the world—settled on him. Sarah’s eyes again filled with tears, and he watched as they brimmed to the very edges of her lower lids. Any moment, any movement, and they will flow over and cascade down her cheeks.
“I believed he really loved me. That it would all work out. No matter what.” She looked away, absolute grief on her face.
Tears flowed slowly down her cheeks, although the quality of her voice did not change. “I have ruined everything.”
“You are punishing yourself.”
“Don’t you get it? I’m just admitting the truth. But really, Sam, how would a priest know anything about love?” Bitter disdain passed over her face, then receded. “The fact is, I’m just facing all the things I’ve done.”
“Such as?”
“I ruined our friendship.”
Her directness shocked him. He knew it was true. His heart felt arthritic—it ached and pulled, as much for Sarah’s suffering as for his own.
“I’m the one who got you reassigned,” she said.
His thoughts dissipated. “Wait. What did you say?”
“I did it. I went to Mother Frances about you. Got you removed from the circus.”
“Why?” His voice was barely audible.
“Jealousy. Revenge. I found out that the two of you got together, drank and talked late at night. But neither of you said a thing. When I found out—by accident, really—it made me crazy.”
He felt the impact of Sarah’s words incrementally: drops of rain before the deluge.
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