My father and I are dressed for the visitation, and we adjust items in the room as we wait for guests to arrive. The phone rings, and Pop disappears to answer it.
I look out the window again and see Robert coming up the snowy walkway, but there are no others in sight. When I open the door, he does not come inside. He just stands there in the cold, wearing a dress shirt and tie with his leather jacket over top. His hair sprouts in all directions as if nervous fingers had raked through it. He can’t seem to walk inside. Snow blows through the open door, and he just stands there.
“Guests will come before long,” I say, and I pull my cardigan tighter around me.
He tucks in his lips and says nothing.
Wet flakes settle on my eyelashes, heavy, lopsided, and I blink to shake them loose. Any warmth my body had held seems to have escaped out the open door. I begin to shiver uncontrollably when Robert surprises me by opening his jacket. I pause, then my heartbeat speeds as I take a step closer and lean in. He wraps all that will reach around my arms.
“This won’t win you any favors with the town,” he says into my hair, his body tense.
“I know,” I say and feel his unshaven chin against my forehead, his mess of curls tickling my cheek.
Our chests are touching. The toes of our shoes are touching. He holds me as if he’s holding that little girl who walked home from the pool and sat at the window with her pinned fingers. I hold him as if he is the boy who was cut down from the harness, landing hard on his hands and knees.
A two-step begins in the parlor. My father must have put on the CD. I think of Doris tethered to that long tube of oxygen, dancing. I look over Robert’s shoulder for anyone who might come to say their regards to his mother. The streets are silent, empty, glistening with snow. I’m cold and my back hurts from leaning in, but I know if I move, this moment is gone.
“Let’s save on the heat,” my father says, coming to the door.
Robert releases me, the jacket slipping off my arms and the chill moving in.
We step into the parlor and Robert takes his first steps toward Doris. His wet curls hang against the back of his jacket. How did I not notice until now that he’s wearing dress pants, the cuffs wet and bunched over his snow boots. He bows his head. His mouth stretches in grotesque shapes as if he is trying very hard to hold back a swell of emotion.
“Ma,” he whispers.
Pop and I move to the kitchen to give him some privacy. I can’t look at my father, knowing how he disapproves of Robert, knowing how quickly his gaze will make me feel like a child and not a woman who’s finally making choices that feel right. But he may understand how we have both chosen to love people we are not supposed to love.
“That was Lundy on the phone,” Pop says. “Dug the hole this afternoon in case the weather gives us problems tomorrow.”
“That should make things easy,” I say.
“The trick might be finding where he did his digging,” Pop says, looking to the front door and then his watch.
There are still no guests, and it doesn’t appear there will be. Robert has taken a seat up front. Pop walks back into the parlor and opens a bottle of wine. He finds the plastic cups and pours into three of them.
“It’s that kind of day,” he says, handing one to each of us, and we take seats beside Robert.
I misjudged how unforgiving the town would be. I had hoped people would rise beyond their old resentments.
My father paces the parlor and the hallway, looking out various windows, sitting, then pacing again. We have all but given up believing anyone would come when the door opens and boots thump against the welcome mat. I take a sip of wine and watch Fritz enter the parlor. Soon after, the widow, the pastor, Slim, and a few teachers, including Kay Gundersen, arrive.
Pop finds his seat beside me again and stays put, as if approaching our guests might chase them away. I know he was publicly shamed tonight, but I was touched to see his heart exposed.
Gradually, the room grows warm with neighbors lingering in back until, finally, Mrs. Purvis walks down the aisle toward Doris. Slim follows, waits for her, then helps her back between the chairs, where she sits in the last row and whispers into her folded hands.
Another family walks to the casket and kneels in prayer. The teenager with them drifts over to the dish of chocolates and scoops up a handful, his eye spotting the photo. He calls his younger sibling over, and they are joined by the parents. Then more gather round.
“My God.”
“All these years, I wondered.”
“Oh, poor Doris.”
“I can’t believe he’s throwing that awful time in our faces.”
One woman races over to my father. “Allen, what’s this about?”
“It was the family’s wishes,” he says.
The woman backs away from his breath. I can smell it, too—he must have refilled his cup with whiskey.
“We’ve always supported our local businesses,” she says. “But this service tonight is a slap to our town.”
The family storms out. Soon, however, more come to our house, mostly teenagers, responding to that first teen, who made calls on our kitchen phone.
“We should start the service,” my father tells me.
But there is no real plan, other than drinking wine and listening to music, as if that alone might recapture the closeness we shared with Doris the other night. I was too optimistic.
And then a surprise. Kay Gundersen, her teeth purple from wine, stands over Doris and begins to sing, just a whisper at first, like singing a lullaby at a child’s bedside. “How Great Thou Art.” Her warbly hymn grows louder, and those who remain, even the teenagers, join in.
When the song ends, many file out, eased just a little bit. A hand touches my shoulder, and I turn to see Bernice, Pop’s girlfriend from long ago. Her new family waits in the hallway. She smiles with older eyes that dip at the corners, lines that show years of kindness and concern she gave to these other people. This visit must confirm all the reasons that made her leave us in the first place. She squeezes my shoulder and turns, leaving before I can find words. When she rejoins her family, she turns once more, and I raise my hand the way I used to in school—tentative, halfway.
“Robert,” Pop says, when I return to my seat, “would you like to say anything on your mother’s behalf?”
Robert has not budged in his chair, watching only what’s in front of him, what he can see without turning his head. Neighbors sign the guest book, touch Doris’s hand, our front door opening and closing, until all of them have left.
“Robert,” Pop tries again.
“Sure,” he says, dazed, looking around the room. “I guess, since it’s just us.”
He stands, then changes his mind and begins to sit again.
“Go on,” Pop says. “Take the floor.”
And Robert stands in front of the table, pushing his hands deep into his pockets.
“This is the story of my parents’ first date,” he says. “I only learned of it this month.”
Damp hair falls in his eyes, and he leaves it there.
“They’d gone on a drive to the Breaks,” he says, the area out-of-towners call the badlands. “I’m not sure why. It’s a funny place for a first date.”
“Maybe because it’s nearby,” Pop says. “And private.”
Robert nods as if to say, Maybe.
“Pop, quiet,” I whisper.
“So while they’re driving,” Robert says, “Ma suddenly shouted, ‘Pull over!’ My dad was scared he’d offended her somehow but the reason she wanted him to stop was because she’d seen a single flower on a cactus.”
He takes another sip of wine.
“The two of them got out to see it up close,” he says.
And I can imagine them walking over the dried, rugged clay to look at those tiny, yellow petals, soft like tissue and protected by hairlike needles. In these parts, such flowers usually go an entire life cycle unseen by humans.
“Ma was in awe of
this little flower. It was the only one they’d seen for miles—he wouldn’t have noticed it at all,” Robert says. “And she told him this flower would become the prickly pear fruit, and if she still knew him when it ripened, she would use the fruit to make him a batch of her homemade jelly.”
“That’s sweet,” I say.
But Pop, shifting in his chair, looks as if he’s thinking, Is there a point to this story?
“They shared their first kiss beside that tiny flower,” Robert says. “And later that year, she brought him a bright red fruit and pretended it was from that same plant.”
I’ve made this jelly before. I imagine a much stronger Doris holding that fruit with its pesky spines piercing her rubber gloves as she scrubbed and cut it. I imagine her setting the pieces in a pot to boil, along with sugar and a lemon peel, until it became a seedy pulp, the color of ripe watermelon.
“I wish I’d known my parents when they were still in love,” Robert says.
He takes another sip of wine. Pop stands to look at the framed picture again, and moving closer to Robert, puts a hand on his shoulder.
I look at them both and think, Please understand why I love this man.
40
Last night, after the visitation, we watched snow fall past the windows and knew getting to the cemetery would be difficult. Pete got here late and slept on the couch in our parlor.
We’re all up early with coffee in thermoses, shoveling out vehicles in the driveway. I’m not sure Pete would have braved the weather for Doris’s funeral if he hadn’t heard all the talk about Tim Rudd or the grim family photo. I’m thankful he’s only spoken about the storm in my presence.
Robert and Pastor Lundy meet at our house, snow nearly to their knees. It will only be the five of us heading to the cemetery. The men have all picked up a shovel, and without words, get to work. Men who don’t want to ride together. Men who don’t want to be in this weather, in suits no less, pants tucked into boots.
Pop tells me quietly, “We should go inside for Mrs. Golden.”
“You haven’t mentioned last night’s service,” I say as we walk down the cellar ramp.
“You know,” he says. “It was different from the one I had planned.”
Trickles of sweat and melting snow run down his head and face, wetting the floor.
“I thought more people would come,” I say. “I thought they’d stay to hear Robert speak.”
This time he says nothing.
I have one last look at Doris. I smooth her dress with its buttons all intact. I whisper, “Thank you,” stretching my hand inside the casket to feel for the paints and brushes I’d placed within her reach. Pop helps me close the lid.
“This is a lot of snow,” he says. “Might make the day tricky.”
He dries his hands, and we slide the casket onto the gurney, roll it up the ramp. Pete and Robert grab opposite sides and help to hike Doris through the snow and into the back of the hearse. Then we load up with shovels, extra gloves, flares. No more small talk. Everyone just does what needs to be done, and quickly.
No one says they are afraid of driving in this weather. No one says how this trip to the cemetery may not feel like a funeral so much as a hurried burial.
One of the neighbors with a snowplow attached to the front of his truck scrapes up and down the streets. This should make it easier to get to the highway.
“Your mother was a good woman,” Pete says to Robert as they close the back.
And with that we split up between the two vehicles, both well heated, with scrapers and emergency equipment inside. I ride with Pete and Pastor Lundy in the white Ford. Pop and Robert ride with Doris in the hearse. I raise my hand to Robert through the glass. He doesn’t see.
“I’m going to keep my strobe lights on,” Pete shouts out his window as he backs onto the street. “I’m hearing on the radio scanner that you can barely see the road, much less oncoming cars.”
The chains on the tires clank and struggle along the white road. Out of habit, I look for Doris painting at her window. I will have to get used to the closed curtains.
Our ride through town is slow and hot, the wipers moving furiously. Snow falls in every direction like an explosion, telephone wires and power lines bobbing in the wind. All our canning, our weatherproofing, our belief in our will against nature is up for a test.
My father, his engine heaving behind us, goes slower and slower, eventually stopping. We stop too, seeing Pop step out to dig snow from the wheels and hubcaps. Still carrying the shovel, he walks to Pete’s window and waits for him to lower it.
“My truck’s not going to make it there and back,” Pop says. “How ’bout yours?”
“I’m good if we hurry,” Pete says.
There is only the briefest time given to frustrated sighs as they look together into the backs of both vehicles and figure out how to consolidate everything essential into Pete’s Ford.
“Let’s start by making room for Mrs. Golden,” Pop says.
They move quickly—rearranging supplies, letting down seats, setting the casket inside.
“Two will have to stay behind,” Pete says.
Pastor Lundy hands over his Bible.
“Mary,” Pop says, “can you drive the pastor back in my truck?”
He has such a serious tone, I know not to argue or delay.
Pete kisses the top of my head. “I may not see you till spring thaw,” he says.
For a moment I can’t move, my head still bowed as the warmth of his kiss evaporates.
“Let’s get to it, Mary,” my father says.
“Just a minute.” I walk toward Robert. “Tell your mother good-bye for me.”
He places his gloved hand on my shoulder. No words. I feel the heat of our night with wine and fire, the sorrow and affection we shared. I let his hand stay there longer, even in front of men who disapprove.
“We have to go, Mary,” my father says, ushering Robert inside and sliding in after him.
“The three of you are going to lift the casket?” I ask.
“We’ll get it done,” Pop says. “We’re out of options.”
I use my coat sleeve to sweep snow off the windshield, watching the others go on without us. When I get in Pop’s hearse, the floor is covered with husks of sunflower seeds. He likes the kind with salt on the outer shell. Sucks on them when he drives, gets the husk good and soft.
“Turning around should be fun,” I tell the pastor as he buckles in.
I can barely reach the pedals but this is no time to adjust my seat. The wheels spin in the deep snow as I try to turn us.
“Should I push?” he asks.
“No, I’ve got this.”
And after almost ten minutes, we are facing the right direction. The road has all but disappeared, but I try my best to drive through the tracks we already made.
“Shame about Robert’s truck,” the pastor says.
“His truck?”
“Someone slashed his tires last night.”
“God! What is wrong with people?”
I press on the gas, and the slick road reminds me to take it slow.
“Want me to drive?” he asks.
“No, I’m just . . .”
I can’t even finish my thoughts I’m so mad.
Pastor Lundy begins to sing quietly in his deep, breathy voice, “Rock of ages, cleft for me.” My hand rubs at the fogged glass to create a space I can peek through. The wipers, useless to keep up, squeak to the right and bang to the left, a buildup of ice beneath the blades. The hearse smells of perspiration, breath, and sunflower seeds.
Once again, I press too hard on the gas, and as the hearse slips against the growing walls on either side of us, I see the pastor’s foot working an imaginary brake. I think of how we must look from the sky right now. Just a dot. A dot hoping to get home before we are buried in snow. This is the life we commit to here. That we cannot rely on others. That no one can reach us so we had better help ourselves. Our lives could end here in my father�
��s hearse with the pastor and his songs and the swish of wipers. But there, at last, is the grain elevator.
We both exhale as we turn where our neighbor’s plowing has revealed the road. This view of Petroleum is picturesque as the community, every single member, it seems, helps to shovel what they can.
My leg is tired of stretching so far for the pedals. As we pass a group of bundled-up children, I recognize Minnow’s long legs sticking out beneath her too-small coat. She turns her head, and seeing the hearse, slowly sticks out her middle finger.
I hate you, she mouths. She must think it’s my father behind the wheel. Her finger rises, slow motion, until her arm is fully extended toward the sky.
The pastor says nothing, but I feel the shame of what Pop has done to her family, his sneaking around, his slow dismantling of something that was already fragile, his hand in hurting Minnow, despite how fondly he speaks of her to Martha.
Her body turns as we pass, continuing her salute. Her little mouth has more pout than rage, like a girl who wants this to be her time, not her parents’, to act rashly and make mistakes.
When we turn the corner, there is only the sound of the wipers and the defroster on high, neither of us wanting to speak about this. The A-frame church is just ahead, white gusts blowing from the roof.
“Why don’t you let me out here,” he says, meaning the middle of the road. “If you try to pull off to the side, we’ll have to dig you out.”
I stop the hearse and stay there as he trudges toward his front door.
“Get right home,” he says, waving me on. “Don’t wait. Get on your way.”
I park as best as I can near the bottom of the driveway. Snow amasses against the south wall of our house. I have to shovel my way to the door. We’ve hoarded supplies, but are they the ones we need most? We stored peach preserves, but what about sanity, laughter, love?
41
Every hour, I shovel out both doors and down the driveway, thinking they should be back from the cemetery by now. They must be cold out in that open field, lifting the casket through deep snow, searching for the grave the pastor dug.
The Flicker of Old Dreams Page 22