by Zoe Kane
She sat there in silence for a moment, fiddling absently with her own phone to avoid having to look at him and sending quiet hate rays to all the men in her life – to Danny, to the lawyer, to Michael, to this asshole – and felt the silence around her grow hard and cold. She knew Marcus could sense her annoyance, and that it made him both irritated and uncomfortable.
Good. She didn’t owe him comfort. She didn’t owe him anything. She held her anger close, deep inside her, like a thick plate of metal armor around her heart. It was so easy to keep the Dark Thing chained up when she was annoyed. It was so much easier not to feel things that way.
Then he spoke, suddenly, out of nowhere, and his words completely unstitched her.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, in a warm voice that pulsed with emotion. Her head snapped up and she stared at him, uncomprehending. “I haven’t said it yet,” he went on. “I should have. It’s unforgivable that I didn’t. I can’t even imagine what – I mean, I can, a little, but you were here. You were the one that was here, and she was your sister. I’m so sorry,” he repeated, and there was so much kindness in it that she thought it would rip her open entirely. “You loved your sister,” he said. “I loved my brother. We’re in this together.”
“I loved Danny too,” she said very softly, and he nodded.
“I know you did,” he said, in a voice so full of unexpected comprehension that it struck her suddenly half-dizzy with panic. “I know. I’m so sorry.”
Chapter Seven: Revelations
A reading from the Book of Revelation.
I, John, saw a new heaven and a new earth. The former heaven and the former earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. I also saw the holy city, a new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.
I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, God’s dwelling is with the human race. He will dwell with them and they will be his people and God himself will always be with them as their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there shall be no more death or mourning, wailing or pain, for the old order has passed away.”
The One who sat on the throne said, “Behold, I make all things new. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give a gift from the spring of life-giving water. The victor will inherit these gifts, and I shall be his God, and he will be my son.”
The word of the Lord.
* * *
Annie leaned back against the cushions, sighed and stretched, sending the stack of papers in her lap scattering across the white-and-rose quilt. She had moved into the guest room when Aunt Vera and Michael went back home; Aunt Vera had tried to talk her into taking Grace and Danny’s room, but it was still the only place the kids could sleep.
Behold, I make all things new. It reminded her of those creatures of Greek mythology, like sphinxes or oracles, who would lure you into doom by handing you just one tiny, easily-misinterpreted fragment of the truth, and leave you to destroy yourself with it. “Behold,” thunders the God of Abraham, “I make all things new,” and technically He does, but what He doesn't say, what He crucially leaves out, is that making things new requires the destruction of the past, it requires the old order to pass away, and sometimes that old order involved some things you can't live without. The old order had a sister you loved. The old order had a brother-in-law who kept the family together. The old order had a sense of stability that kept everyone from skidding off the rails. So don’t come to me with this “I make all things new” business and expect me to be happy about it, she thought to herself irritably, unless we all get the chance to review the fine print first.
A part of Annie thought it might be a good thing, particularly in times like these, to be able to lean on some kind of faith. But since she had none at the moment, since she had only herself, she would have to be enough.
She gathered up the scattered heaps of paper – the “Recommended Funeral Mass Readings” packet which had been plaguing her all morning; a to-do list for the Altar Society in coordinating the reception, as if anyone could spare time to answer questions about what color forks were needed at a time like this; the daily stack of cards and letters of condolence that flooded in through the mail every morning; receipts from the funeral home, from the florist, from the print shop making the programs; and a half-mocking list of banned songs for the funeral which Danny had left in the safe-deposit box with the will. This she took up and re-read for the dozenth time, feeling the closest she had felt all week to hearing Danny's voice in her head, to any of this feeling real.
* * *
BANNED UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES: “On Eagle's Wings”, “Amazing Grace”, “I Am the Bread of Life”, anything drippy, sappy, or overly funereal (they’ll all know it’s a funeral, Bel, you won’t have to remind them), anything with Latin, anything involving a harp in any way.
STRONGLY RECOMMENDED: Danny would like the casket to be carried in by Stormtroopers as the Imperial March plays in the background. If this is beyond the scope of the Saint Philip Neri Sunday Morning Chamber Choir, a recording can be substituted. Danny is not fussy. [MARGIN NOTE: Hi Annie, if I die first and can’t forcibly stop you please do not actually do this or I will haunt you to the end of your days, THANKS SIS LOVE YOU BYE]
If Stormtroopers are not available, or if a lighter tone is preferred, Danny will also accept the “Ghostbusters” theme as entrance music.
For the Recessional, when everyone's weepy and maudlin: Danny votes “Piano Man,” because it makes him feel what Grace describes as “Man Feelings,” and rebukes Grace's claim that it's because it's the only song he knows all the words to. Grace’s vote is “Africa” by Toto, but honestly you could ask Grace to pick a song for literally any circumstance and she would always pick “Africa” by Toto, so DON’T TRUST GRACE. [MARGIN NOTE: Ignore this last part, it’s clearly the work of a delusional mind]
OTHER CHOICES TO CONSIDER: Grace thinks she saw part of a movie on TV once that ended with a funeral where “Bittersweet Symphony” by The Verve was playing and it sounded pretty cool. Also “Super Trouper” by ABBA is WAY catchy and its lyrics are total gibberish, it could literally be about anything, so if you need something more upbeat, that’s a good option. Also both parties agree that depressing Irish drinking songs or murder ballads might strike a nice, appropriately somber tone to encourage all participants to reflect upon their own mortality; though as Grace points out, since the odds are greater than zero that Danny will meet his eventual end by her shoving him off a cliff after he deletes Project Runway from the DVR queue one too many times to make room for a recording of a soccer game he plans to watch in real-time anyway, maybe use your best judgment on the murder ballads part.
Okay, fine, Bel, we did it! We made you a list! You’re welcome! And now in case we die in a murder-suicide pact at the end of our tri-state crime spree, you’ll be able to plan the world’s most awesome funeral. You’re welcome!
* * *
Annie closed her eyes and heaved a bone-deep sigh. She could hear the two of them cackling to themselves as they scribbled notes back and forth on this scrap of yellow legal paper they assumed nobody would ever see.
It would never have occurred to Danny, as prepared as he was, nor to Grace who found the whole thing a touch morbid, that the only reason this had come up when they did the wills was because at some point, someone somewhere was actually going to have to hand some funeral director a list of Scripture readings and hymn choices, and if that person was Annie then that person would really, really appreciate someone taking ten minutes out from their busy lives, the same amount of time it would have taken to make a “hilarious” fake joke list by the way, you assholes, to make a real list of real songs that were liturgically appropriate and which a choir of indeterminate quality and size could easily work up into a decent arrangement with less than a week's notice. This was not too much to ask. People did it all the time. She, Annie, had carefully crafted a list of her own, assuming that even as a lapsed Catholic
it would not hurt to err on the side of a solidly religious funeral service, and that if there were any fuss Aunt Vera would settle it. (Annie was convinced that, however long she lived, Aunt Vera would outlive her. People with that kind of energy were capable of living forever if they had enough things to do.)
As much as she loved Grace, it was so typical, this lack of foresight. Danny, though – she’d expected better from Danny.
ABBA at a funeral. Honest to God. She could slap him.
* * *
A reading from the second Letter of Saint Paul to Timothy.
Beloved: I am already being poured out like a libation, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought the good fight; I have finished the race; I have kept the faith. From now on the crown of righteousness awaits me, which the Lord, the just judge, will award to me on that day, and not only to me, but to all who have longed for his appearance.
The word of the Lord.
* * *
Michael read well. He had always had a nice voice and had done well in school with drama and public speaking. And Annie had to give him credit for keeping his voice composed. She hated funerals where someone got up to read, or God forbid, to speak unscripted, and began crying so hard that you couldn't understand what they were saying. You wanted to feel badly for them, but didn't you also feel like people should know themselves well enough not to volunteer for a speaking job if they were the kind of person likely to fall apart in public? Didn't that seem like basic common sense? Wouldn't a deeply grieving person, or maybe just a particularly emotional one, who had any sense at all, say, “No, I shouldn't offer to read the Prayers of the Faithful, I'm probably going to cry?” And then a more suitable replacement could be found who could be trusted, during the most important moments, to keep themselves together.
But Michael had never, in all his life, failed to come through when Annie needed him, and it was the same today. His voice was not powerful or loud, but it was clear and strong and it eased something inside her somehow. She had always liked this reading; even someone with her touch-and-go relationship with all things spiritual could not help but be moved by those words:
I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.
I did what I came here to do. I'm done now. Come back and take me home.
But they hadn’t, had they? Grace and Danny. They hadn’t finished. They hadn’t had a chance to finish anything. Just one more way in which all of this was wrong.
The Dark Thing began scratching at the back of her brain and she swallowed hard, fighting it back.
A fidgety movement beside her caught her attention, and she looked down at Sophia, face tearstained, who had crawled over Isaac and Aunt Vera to sit beside her.
“Aunt Annie,” Sophia whispered, not nearly quietly enough to go unnoticed.
“Hush, Sophia, the priest is about to read the Gospel. This is very important.”
“Dolphin has a question.”
Annie sighed. "What is it?"
"What's a bibation?”
“A what?” People were beginning to stare. She bent down to Sophia and whispered quietly, “What did you say? I didn't hear you.”
“What's a bibation?”
“What’s a – Oh. Libation. It’s an old-fashioned word for drink.”
“Drink?”
“Yes. Like water. It’s a metaphor.” That didn’t help. “That’s an, um, a way of describing an abstract concept – okay, Paul is saying that he’s coming to the end of his life. Like a pitcher runs out of water when you pour it out.”
“Oh.” Sophia thought for a moment. “Is that how it happens?”
“What?”
“When people die?”
“Honey, we can talk about this when we get home.”
* * *
A reading from the holy Gospel according to John.
Jesus said to his disciples: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. You have faith in God; have faith also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If there were not, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back again and take you to myself, so that where I am you also may be. Where I am going you know the way.” Thomas said to him, “Master, we do not know where you are going; how can we know the way?” Jesus said to him, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.”
The Gospel of the Lord.
* * *
The funeral reception was a blur.
The Altar Society had done their usual flawless job in setting up exactly this kind of event; there was cake and cold cuts and lemon bars and small doughy white rolls and a sort of fizzy sherbet punch that Annie found inexplicably depressing. There were hours of mechanical, forced greetings to endure, lots of awkward condolences and unwanted hugs from women who smelled ferociously of department-store perfume or shed face powder on her neat black suit, hundreds of strangers who knew her and addressed her by name without Annie having any clue who they were or how nice to be. It was exhausting.
After about two hours, she finally decided upon careful reflection that she had greeted everyone she could possibly have been expected to greet, and her head was starting to ache from the noise in the parish hall. Grabbing a frosting-flower-bedecked square of cake on a yellow paper plate, and a cup of the depressing sherbet punch, Annie slipped quietly outside to the cement-and-brick courtyard. Just beyond the view from the glass doors was a small concrete bench, where she sat and began poking at her cake. She wasn't sure she wanted to eat it. She wasn’t actually hungry. She didn't even know really why she had taken it, except as something to do with her hands.
“Are you going to eat that?”
She looked up, startled, to find the source of the voice, and saw Marcus Rey staring down at her. His hair was neatly combed, and he was wearing an excellent suit. She had seen him come into the church a few minutes before the service began and had expected him to make his way up to the front pew with the Walters. He had seen her, made eye contact, given a little wave, and then seated himself in the very furthest back corner of the right side section. She wasn’t sure if he was trying to get as far away from her as he possibly could, or if he simply just didn’t want to see or speak to anyone he knew. Which made it all the more surprising that he had walked out here so purposefully, as though he’d been looking for her.
“I haven't decided,” she said, looking down pensively at the cake.
“If you decide not to, can I have it? I'm sort of hungry but I couldn't brave the mob scene at the buffet. I'm hiding out here.”
“I think I only want the frosting flowers. You can have the cake.”
“You're a lifesaver.” She smiled a little at that, without intending to. She neatly severed a yellow buttercream rose from the surface of the cake with the tines of her plastic fork, and licked it off.
“Where are the kids?” Marcus asked.
“With my Aunt Vera. Inside.”
“They must be a wreck.”
“Lucy hasn't said a word all day,” replied Annie, “and the twins aren't much better. They’ve had a rough week.”
“So have you,” said Marcus, and she turned and looked at him, a little startled. His voice sounded almost kind. It was as though he actually saw her. And just as she was beginning to think, Maybe I misjudged him and he’s not so bad after all, he looked conspiratorially around him to make sure no one was around, sat down beside her, and pulled a hip flask out of his coat pocket.
“You brought booze? To a funeral?”
“You people are Catholic,” he said defensively, “there should have been booze here.”
“At eleven a.m.? On a Tuesday?”
“Keep it down, someone will hear you.”
“I cannot believe you brought a flask to church.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t,” he retorted. “And anyway we’re not in church anymore, we’re on a concrete patio outside the pari
sh hall, and I’m not apologizing for needing a drink at my brother’s funeral.”
“I cannot believe you.”
“Want some?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I'm – what is it?”
“Whiskey.”
She hesitated, just for a moment, just long enough that he knew he’d won, and then he did something totally unexpected. He pulled a second flask out of his other pocket.
“You brought two?” she exclaimed. “Jesus Christ, Marcus, how drunk were you planning on getting?”
“This one’s for you,” he said, and so clearly meant it as a truce that all the irritation just evaporated right out of her. It had been an awful day, and it wasn’t even noon yet, and the whiskey smelled good, and Aunt Vera had the kids, and she was so tired of being hugged by strangers and nodding politely while they recited lines from the same script – “I’m sorry for your loss,” “they’re with the Lord now,” “if there’s anything you need” – that she finally sighed, looked around, saw that no one was coming, and took the flask from his outstretched hand.
He raised his to toast her, and muttered something unintelligible.
“Are you speaking in tongues?”
He repeated it again, slower. “Slainte mhaiph saoil fada is bas in Eireann.”
“What's that mean?”
“'Good health, long life, and may you die in Ireland.'” She smiled at that, against her will, a real and unforced smile, clinked her flask against his, and drank. Perhaps, just perhaps, she thought, this might not be a total, utter, crashing disaster.
Oh, Annie.
Chapter Eight: Malcolm