Death Revokes The Offer

by Catharine Bramkamp

  I directed at least three couples to the guest book and accepted condolences from five couples that were certain they recognized me. I want you to know I resisted slipping my business card to any and all participants. Maybe once, but only because they asked.

  Half an hour later, I was ready to retreat. My black suit didn’t fit me as well as I wished, as if wishing magically expands the fabric of a skirt or better, magically reduces the circumference of one’s hips. It doesn’t.

  I did entertain myself by discovering the answer to the question, what does one wear to a funeral in the summer? The men had it easy; they wore the same jacket and shirt they would have pulled on in the dim morning light to get to work in the City. The women chose linen, the real deal that wrinkles with the slightest movement. So the majority of women were elegantly wrinkled.

  My mother, for instance, was dressed up in tailored linen slacks (wrinkled) and a black silk blouse with a huge floppy bow that I hoped to god wasn’t a sign that they were coming back in style. Huge floppy bows, not mothers.

  Everyone carried their designer sunglasses in their hands, as if they were on the verge to dashing back outside.

  I joined my mother and her big bow. We sat towards the back of the room with the Country Club and Exercise class friends. Five rows of empty chairs divided us from the family sitting in the front row. We sat in a room with a 200-mourner capacity; an optimistic number ordered by Hillary, there were maybe fifty people attending if you count all the little grandchildren. But since Hillary and her spouse sat in the front row, they could just visualize the crowd piled in behind them and no one would ever point out that the number of mourners were low.

  I settled my purse under the chair in front of me and glanced at the line of people waiting patiently to pay their respects to the dead.

  Well, look at that. Mr. Fischer had slipped in right after I had left my post; see what happens when I’m not vigilant? Mr. Fischer firmly held the arm of a smaller frailer version of himself, the father who was the expert in Chicano art, I presumed.

  “Who’s the old man?” I leaned over and whispered to mom.

  “Shhh. We don’t say old.”

  “Excessively mature then. Do you know him?”

  Mom squinted, “An old war buddy, isn’t that what they call them?”

  “Only if he went to war.”

  Mom thought for a minute, and then shook her head. “Almost. Mortimer had money or influence in the family or something. Maybe he had influential friends. He mentioned that he even worked for Rockefeller, can you imagine? Anyway, he went to college and avoided the draft. I don’t know how that worked out really. No one avoided the draft then; not like now.”

  “As if you remember.” I taunted her. Mom wasn’t that old, a good seventeen years younger than the gentleman who staggered slightly as he approached the coffin. The viewing was open coffin, which I think is tacky. But it was not, as you noticed, my funeral.

  And seventeen years is a colossal amount of time in American History. So what my mother remembers and what someone as elderly as Mr. Fischer senior remembers could very well sound like two different histories. And anything that happened before 1976 in my book didn’t happen at all. I’m looking forward to the next 200 years will bring to the US. Our whole history amounts to a bad phase in Egyptian or Chinese history. We are nothing. I think of things like that at funerals. It seems appropriate.

  Mr. Fischer helped the elderly man, his father, walk away from the coffin. Fischer had a pretty strong grip on the old man’s arm. Maybe Mr. Fischer the elder was unsteady because he was thinking it was his turn next.

  That’s what I’d be thinking if I were his age. But I’m not. I’m young and healthy and have enough chutzpa to think that death will not happen to me.

  I should have kept that in mind.

  The ceremony was simple. Recalling what the art in Mortimer’s house looked like, I guessed he wasn’t exactly a pious man, and I was right. There was little said about the qualifications a person must amass before Jesus can save him. And we all assumed Mr. Smith was saved, it makes it easier for the family. Blessed are the infallible.

  Smith’s children had little to say during the funeral as well. Hillary read Mr. Smith’s bio, including listing all his published articles and his PhD thesis in representational art and its influence in the community. His work was even sited by McCarthy in the 50’s. Not something I’d ever mention, but this group seemed impressed. Hillary touched on Smith’s work with the Rockefellers in New York before the war, his move to California for his BA and his graduate work.

  Hillary read carefully, without much emotion. She mentioned her own mother and added a few scattered adjectives that put the first wife in a good light, but Hillary only mentioned her stepmother by name. Samantha was relegated to a short addendum in Mortimer’s life. Those who survive, write the history.

  “What about this Samantha?” I whispered to mom.

  “She died two years ago, she was much younger than he but no children.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “He never said.”

  That wasn’t helpful at all.

  Hillary and company sat upright and quiet in the front row. The Smith children, either unconsciously or not, ranged themselves in the second row by size. Hierarchy – size, weight and influence, we all line ourselves up. The soccer star siblings kept kicking each other.

  Hillary finished up the list of accomplishments with “And he was a devoted father.” Both boys squirmed at this line but didn’t object. I kept my expression grave. Because that’s how you should look at a funeral, grave. I practice this look in front of the mirror before trying the expression in public because if I’m not careful, I just look silly.

  The funeral director said a few words of comfort, general things that applies to anyone already dead and not likely to contradict. Once he finished, we were allowed to break up, talk to the dead, talk amongst ourselves.

  Peter O’something, the fourth or third, attorney-at-law-esquire spotted me before I spotted him. My first instinct was to thrust mom in his path and deflect his interest, but she was distracted by Hillary and wasn’t available. I had to face the lawyer alone.

  “Have you met Mr. Fischer?” He patted my arm, as if telling me to stay, and fetched Mr. Fischer.

  Fischer ducked his head and nodded to me as if we never met.

  I, in turn, was forced by courtesy to touch his limp hand, again. So I squeezed it too hard. The man didn’t react at all.

  “The children would like to donate the painting to the museum after all.” The lawyer said.

  “After all he’s done.” Mr. Fischer murmured glancing instinctively back at the coffin.

  “Well, a person can never do too much.” I replied.

  Peter snorted. I felt better about him.

  We stood together, a tiny island of silence.

  “Peter Reilly Klausen the Third.” I head a voice behind me bellow. “How the hell are you?”

  “Ben Stone.” Peter let out a sigh along with the name. He straightened is shoulders and his tie as Ben approach.

  So that was his real name. Peter Reilly Klausen the Third visibly blanched at Ben. Since I don’t know better, my first guess was that Ben must have been Reilly Klausen the Third’s schoolyard nemesis. Had Ben Stone been a bully on the playground? Did he beat up skinny annoying boys who would grow up and become attorneys for the County and tangle Ben up in lawsuits involving EPA reports and endangered Red Backed Frogs until he choked? Ben didn’t look that concerned.

  But P. Reilly Klausen the Third, esq. did.

  “I’m fine,” he squeaked. “Do you know Mr. Fischer from the Lost Art Museum? And Ms. Allison Little?” He amended at the last minute, as if I’m hard to miss.

  I was certain the introductions were a way for Reilly Klausen the Third to deflect Ben’s attention, but it didn’t work. Unless Peter crawled over half a dozen folding chairs, which would look like an obvious attempt to escape, he was stuck making nice
to Mr. Stone.

  “How the hell are you?” I leaned past the stiff figure of Klausen and gave Ben as hard a handshake as I could. He just grinned in response.

  He crushed my hand to counter my crush. I smiled in spite of myself. Great grip on that man, he must be good with his hands. But I schooled my wayward mind to not wander down that evil path. This was a solemn occasion, I had enough evil thoughts to send us both to hell.

  “Great watch, I know, did you get that on the streets of Beijing?” I greeted him.

  “No, on sale at Mervyn’s.” He countered. “It could very well be a Timex.” He held my hand, easing up a bit on the full crush part, but he didn’t let go. I released first.

  Really, we should not be having this much fun at a funeral. I didn’t even bother to glance around to see if anyone was watching. Mom was deep in discussion with her exercise class members, so I was free for a moment or two longer.

  “So Klausen, representing the family or Mr. Fischer?”

  “Just the family.”

  “By the way, where did that million dollars go?” Ben asked.

  Now that was interesting. How did Ben Stone, contractor and general handyman, know about a million-dollar gift to a museum in the City? And of course, how did I know? Because Reilly slipped up and told. Not great with a secret is he? I was looking forward to an answer.

  Reilly Klausen cleared his throat, but Mr. Fischer pursed his lips and shook his head at Ben. “Our donor insisted on keeping the gift anonymous, he didn’t want his name attached. His donation finished up the capital campaign, we are thrilled as you can imagine.”

  Fischer looked almost thrilled himself.

  “Well, thank you.” Ben drawled. “That clears that up.”

  I don’t think Mr. Fischer realized what he said.

  Reilly Klausen cleared his throat again. Ben glared at the smaller man who cringed in response.

  “Okay, well. Lovely to meet all of you. I need to make sure my mother is okay.” I said and pulled away from the scene. I did not get far. Hillary pounced on me as soon as she saw me move away from her lawyer.

  “We want a second opinion on the painting.”

  “I thought you were donating it to the museum.”

  “We are, I think we are, unless it’s valuable.” See how skewed my world is? As if $300,000 wasn’t very much at all, and half million is the mark of true significance in the world. I have actually heard people say things like “If only I could get my hands on a half a million dollars, I could turn it into a fortune.” That kind of attitude. I know, and as Carrie would say, so much waste when there are so many deserving cats to be rescued.

  “A second opinion? That’s great.” I encouraged her. One must sometimes indulge one’s clients. Okay, one must encourage and indulge one’s clients all the time, nature of the business.

  “I don’t have time to take it to the City myself, I haven’t been home much this week and the girls need me. And we have Mark’s campaign. You do it.” She commanded.

  I bristled up as only a youngest child can, then tried to control that initial reaction.

  “I’m not an art curator.” I pointed out as calmly as I could. “And the last one,” I nodded to Mr. Fischer, “made a house call.”

  Mr. Fischer who made house calls, had managed to extract himself from between the lawyer and the hard place (that would be Mr. Stone) and was now was alone and hovering around the back of the room glancing through the door that I believed led to the rest rooms.

  “This one is more important.” Hillary dismissed the current curator in favor of the powers of a new, unknown curator. Opinions from the new and unknown always carries more weight with people than the opinion of some one they actually know.

  “He’s from the De Young so you have to bring the painting to him. I made an appointment for tomorrow. Ask for copies of the estimate or whatever so I can review it over the weekend. Here’s my fax number. You can just drop the painting back off to the house on your way home.”

  I just stared at her, willing her to understand how preposterous her request was, but she did not budge. She blinked at me and smiled. “Uh, please?”

  Please.

  Oh, damn. “What time did you make the appointment?” I braced for the answer. If she said 8:00 I’ll slit my wrists, which ought to produce an interesting performance art project.

  “Eleven. He doesn’t come in much earlier than that.”

  “Why the rush? The house won’t sell tomorrow, and you have at least thirty days after the sale to clear out the art and furniture. Why do we need to take the painting now?”

  “We need the money.” Hillary said simply, she would have said more but Mark swept up behind his sister and gave her arm an affectionate squeeze that looked like it may leave a bruise.

  “So are you joining us at the grave site?” Mark barred his teeth in my direction – it was suppose to be a happy smile. I just took it as such and did not ask more questions.

  “Sure.” I replied, a newly dug grave being easier to deal with than Hillary.

  “Then that’s settled.” Hillary nodded, extracted her arm from her brother’s hand and focused on herding her family group to the gravesite.

  I returned to the mean-spirited group, they had not moved. They obviously knew each other and had history, because the vibes among the three men were strong and not terribly friendly. I bared my teeth in a smile and invited everyone to join me at the gravesite, perhaps to throw fastballs of dirt into the open hole, or at each other, something other than standing around looking visible uncomfortable and angry.

  Fischer the younger, bustled back to Stone and Reilly but only to quickly excuse himself. He looked a little damp around the edges, as he had been hiking in and out of the building from cool air to the hot summer afternoon.

  “Have you seen my father?” He asked us all, a general plea.

  Ben shook his head and gave the director a look of sympathy. “Where did you see him last?”

  As if a parent was like a set of car keys.

  “I thought he went off to the rest room but he wasn’t in there.” Fischer admitted.

  “Did you check the ladies room?” Ben asked.

  “Ladies room?” Fischer squeaked. “Oh Lord. Excuse me, I have to go.”

  All three of us did the exact same thing. We nodded gravely, and no one smiled. No one. Because as funny as it is, not a single person wished to tempt the gods who dictate what kind of elderly parent you are likely to end up with. We were sympathetic to Fischer but we were also thinking – better you than me, and surreptitiously making the sign of the cross.

  The gravesite service was not particularly special, the situation wasn’t mournful and the sun was actually hot.

  We all squeezed under the temporary canopy where the site and the coffin lined up perpendicular to one another. The children, Hillary, Stephen and Mark to a one, winced at getting their hands dirty when they threw the symbolic hand full of dirt into the grave. But it was a great photo op for Mark; he looked serious and sad as camera flashes filled in the shadows. It was a nice – albeit bizarre distraction. But even the presence of the press couldn’t mitigate the terribly final sound of dirt hitting the top of the coffin. It made me feel squeamish, but I resisted looking for my mother in the crowd.

  Hilary whipped out a white handkerchief and made a show of wiping her hands clean.

  It wasn’t until the group broke up that I remember that I wouldn’t be able to fit the painting into my car.

  “What do you think?” My mother spun in the foyer of the family home and looked at me with great expectation.

  I came back to the house after the funeral because frankly I had nothing better to do. I was disappointed that I didn’t meet with anyone suspicious unless you count Hillary and Mark’s unhealthy close relationship, but there was historical precedence for a brother and sister to marry, I think it happened in both ancient Egypt and Ancient Rome, so that wasn’t far out of the question. But their relationship had nothing
to do with hidden art and stolen doors.

  I was mildly depressed and I told myself that it was perfectly okay to stay down in Marin because if I got a call on the house, I was closer to show it. In my dreams.

  “What do I think of what?” I asked as I walked into the two-story foyer. The foyer opens to the living room that is backed by a series of French doors that in turn open to the patio and pool that in turn backs into the unearthly bright green of the 13th hole. This is an ideal location because my dad, like his neighbors, can sneak out the back gate and get in a few rounds before the sun sets and no one will ever know. Whatever keeps them off the streets is all I have to say.

  Dad is a consultant over at Lawrence Livermore. He is a nuclear physicist and even in retirement, still likes to play with atoms. Try to top that in high school. I had the thin, perfect mother, and my brothers had the brilliant talented father who once flew to Washington DC to testify on behalf of the beleaguered atom (that was many administrations ago,). In comparison, my brothers and I are extreme under achievers.

  Anyway, Dad was in the east bay this afternoon.

  Absence does seem to make my parent’s hearts grow fonder. I personally would want my spouse around. You know, to open jars and stuff.

  My mother was indulging in that quintessentially female activity where the girl stands in the middle of the room and challenges her mate with the words, “notice anything different?” And the poor man has to guess what the hell it is and if he gets it wrong, she will crucify him even though it was something hard to spot, like a new color eye shadow or that she trimmed her bangs. I know this not because I indulge, but because I see it often, and despise the practice. My sisters-in-law do it all the time.

  “What?” I checked to see if mom had trimmed her bangs, was wearing a different shade of taupe eye shadow, was employing a different moisturizer, anything at all. The blouse was new, the latest thing she assured me at the funeral, but we’ve already been over that. So I honestly couldn’t see anything.

  “The door,” she said, disgusted by my inability to notice the obvious.