“Why don’t you get Harper out of there?”
“Harper won’t leave Bea. And Bea won’t leave Lorraine. So there you are.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Since Bea moved here five years ago. Harper thinks her mother is sick,” he says with disgust. “And I’ve had it. It’s just too draining. Anyway, what can I do?”
“I’m so sorry, Fred.” But I’m thinking, isn’t there always something you can do? We arrive at my place. He gives me a weak kiss good-bye, says see you later, and leaves.
As I walk into my apartment, I am reminded of an old adage my mother was fond of repeating. If everyone’s problems were hung out on a line, you’d pick your own.
I’d planned to use today to make some calls about my job. I’m not exactly in the mood anymore, but I’ve put it off long enough. I clean up and decide to put together another version of my portfolio. I’ve heard that the Santa Monica Tribune is looking for a metro reporter. These little newspapers don’t seem like much, but the editors at the dailies read them religiously and scan them for scoops and newcomers. I guess I’m in that category once again.
I met with my accountant the other day and he delicately suggested for about the ten billionth time that I scale down my spending. He inquired as to whether I had any other sources of income, I guess meaning Palmer. When I said no, he helpfully suggested I speed up my job search. I know he thinks I’m in another world as far as finances are concerned. And I must admit, I barely look at my investment statements or my checkbook balance, for that matter. My sister uses quaint terms such as “the chickens are coming home to roost,” to motivate me to take charge. I’ve pretty much ignored her until last week when she started referring to me as “the poor relation.”
I like to blame my cavalier attitude about money on my father, who would compensate for his absences by periodically sending us large checks. The checks were especially generous when he missed milestones like birthdays, school plays, Christmas, and father-daughter dances. I knew that when the envelope showed up, he wouldn’t. My mother’s drinking would get worse, and the whole cycle would begin all over again. My sister and I took care of ourselves until her binge was over and then she would blithely try to pretend that this was just a temporary situation. Many times she would say, “When your father gets back” but my big question would be, “When?” Sometimes I would sink into a morass of vague anger and resentment. It’s strange that Harper doesn’t seem to feel that way about Lorraine, although it’s hard to know what the child was thinking last night.
I lay my portfolio on my desk, pull out all the supplies my sister brought me, and juice up my laptop. That’s when the phone rings and Fred tells me the news. They found Lorraine on the beach, wrapped in a sleeping bag. She’d been dead for about six hours according to the beach patrol, who called Bea shortly after Fred and I took off. Fred’s voice is strained as he tells me he’s heading back to Bea’s and then to the morgue.
There’s something excruciatingly quiet about bad news. All the noises of normal human behavior suddenly cease, but it’s the oddest thing—you can still hear the sound of the faintest clock ticking, the wind sighing through the bushes, a far-off bird trilling, or the hum of a refrigerator motor in the kitchen. Human voices sort of…fall away…like the false veil of protection and comfort we all seem to take for granted in between life’s inevitable disasters. I’ve had this feeling before. One minute you’re full of trust and affection, and the next, you feel as if you’ve been yanked out of your world and are careening somewhere treacherous and unknown.
Fred tells me that Lorraine overdosed on a mixture of heroin and cocaine. He is surprisingly clinical and unemotional as he goes through the details of how they found her and what they are planning to do. He also informs me that Bea is grief-stricken and they haven’t told Harper yet. With a feeling of dread, I offer to drop off some food and Fred says something noncommittal like “whatever you think.”
I drive to the little toy store in my neighborhood to pick up some things for Harper. Then I stop at a French children’s clothing boutique and get Harper an expensive fuzzy pink sweater with a flannel skirt and tights to match. I have it all wrapped and put in the trunk of my car. It’s funny how one’s mind flashes on events that took place years ago, especially when you least expect it.
My mother woke me up one morning when I was ten and told me that my girlfriend’s father had shot himself in the head the night before. He sat in his car, in front of his large Tudor house at twilight, just like the Beatles song, and the whole family heard the bang inside. Anyway, my sister and I went back to her house after the funeral and the only thing I remember was the pile of presents by the door. They were all for my girlfriend, of course, and I was insanely jealous, the way children get when they are totally oblivious to the crushing sadness of something that takes place outside of their universe. I remember thinking that my dad was also gone, never mind that he was living someplace else, and didn’t I deserve something too?
I pull into Vicente Foods, pick up a honey-baked ham, lasagna from the deli counter, a chocolate layer cake, a large bottle of Scotch, and several bottles of wine. I’m just going to drop the stuff off and leave.
It’s almost dark by the time I pull up to Bea’s place. I’m surprised that there are no other cars lining the streets or in the driveway. In fact, the place looks deserted and the front door is slightly ajar. Harper greets me in her pajamas with an expectant smile.
“Are you here because of my mom?” she asks.
“Yes, Harper. I am. I’m so sorry.”
“She’s in heaven and in my heart,” Harper repeats in a practiced, almost singsong voice and I wonder who has coached her.
“That’s good,” I reply. Definitely at a loss for words.
“Are those for me?” Harper suddenly exclaims with a wide smile.
Bea comes up behind Harper and wraps her arms lovingly around the child’s neck.
She’s wearing a housedress and slippers and her silken, silver hair is pulled back in a haphazard way.
“Bless your heart, Dora. You didn’t need to come back all this way. Look at you. Oh my, and all these groceries and things for Harper. You’re such a jewel.”
I am about to say something polite like “it was nothing,” when I suddenly realize that Bea is weeping and awkwardly trying to dab her cheeks with an embroidered old-fashioned hankie. She has another in the pocket of her dress, with dainty little daisies needlepointed around the edges, and I feel so helpless.
I put my arms around her and feel her heavy frame trembling through her limp, wrinkled housedress. Her face is hot and moist and I can smell that faint touch of lavender on her neck. We stand in that embrace for a few moments like long-lost friends, and I am overcome with feelings of sadness and loss. “I’m so sorry, Bea.”
“I know, dear. Thank you.”
Somewhere from behind us, I hear Harper’s tentative voice.
“Can I open them now?”
“Of course,” I answer. How can I leave? I guess I’ll stay for a while. At least until some other people arrive.
Harper rips open the presents. Her face brightens when she sees the pink prima-donna sweater. She puts it on over her pajamas and runs to look at herself in the mirror. Then she comes back and proudly says, “I look just like a teenager.”
I look at Bea, who’s clearly distraught and distracted, and I say to Harper, “Why don’t you go play and I’ll fix dinner.”
I walk into the kitchen and see half-eaten breakfast dishes still on the table and a lukewarm quart of milk on the countertop. Bea was apparently in the middle of breakfast when she got the news. I start cleaning up and Bea comes in. Her face is drawn and her hands are shaking.
“Do you feel like talking?” I ask. “Is there anyone you’d like me to call?”
“No, thanks. Some things don’t bear going into. She couldn’t be saved, you know. I don’t believe you can save anyone, really. She had to do that herself
and the drug took that will away from her. You never knew her, but she loved Harper and me and her brother and her friends. I know she knew we were praying for her. And I know she felt awful about disappointing us all the time.”
There is a tone of finality in her voice as she adds, “You need to eat more, Dora. I bet you’re one of those girls who eats all day and still looks like a sparrow.” She gives me a ghost of a smile. “Do you need some help here?”
“No, you go get some rest, Bea. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
“That would be real nice, dear. I’m dead on my feet. Thank you.”
I watch her drift into the hall and then I slice up the ham, throw a salad together, open the wine I brought, and down a few slugs.
I put everything on the table and call Bea and Harper. Harper comes running in the way kids do. She asks if she can have some cake and I tell her dinner first. She sits down, half off the chair, and starts wolfing down the ham. It’s obvious she hasn’t eaten since breakfast. Bea walks in, her eyes red and swollen. “I don’t know what in the world is taking Fred so long. Good heavens, why isn’t he calling?”
I’d like the answer to that myself. “You know, Bea, sometimes these things take a while. You’re dealing with the city and I’m sure there’s a lot of paperwork.”
Bea sits down heavily and stares off into space. Then she closes her eyes for a moment and clasps her hands in her lap. I can’t tell if she is dozing or praying. “Can I get you something to drink, Bea?” Silence.
She slowly opens her eyes. “I tried to get her to come to church. They have a group of young people there that could’ve helped her. ‘For it is written, he shall give his angels charge over thee. And in their hands, they shall bear thee up.’”
Harper is eating, not seeming to hear. I don’t know how to comfort Bea. Where are all the other people? Neighbors? Friends? I guess nobody knows yet.
There is a knock on the door. Bea jumps up. From the corner of my eye, I see two uniformed policemen and Fred follows them in. When Bea sees Fred, she erupts into a pitiful, wailing sound and falls into his arms. I feel like I shouldn’t be here intruding on their most painful, private moments. I should have waited.
Harper pulls on my sleeve. “Can I have my cake now?” She either isn’t aware of the scene going on at the door or she’s had a lot of practice dealing with terrible moments. I quickly tell Harper, let’s have the cake in your room. I grab the cake, a couple of plates, and hustle her off down the hall.
We pass Lorraine’s room and Harper darts in saying, “I left my blankie in here.” As I stand at the doorway, she turns on the light.
“Do you want to see a picture of my mommy?”
“I’d love to,” I answer. Oh god.
She takes my hand, leads me into the room, and shows me a small, framed photo from the bedside table. The picture is of Harper and her mother standing on the beach. Lorraine looks shockingly young, a dark-haired, solemn girl in her early twenties with her arms around Harper. The room is poorly lit, with Indian madras fabric sewn as curtains and an Indonesian caftan on the bed. There are carved, wooden gargoyle-shaped candleholders on a small bookshelf and heavy silver cross necklaces hang over the sides of the headboard. The bedside table is cluttered with a dirty ashtray, a crushed box of Camels, packages of gum, and an open can of Diet Coke. On the floor next to the bed are some well-worn Doc Martens and a pile of dirty clothes. It’s clear that Bea doesn’t come into this room. Harper’s blanket is on the bed next to a few Barbies, some glitter nail polish, and a can of Aqua Net. There is a small TV in the corner with some children’s tapes on top.
“Do you want to wait here for my mommy to come home?” Harper asks as if I’m one of her playmates. I’ve been told that it takes some time for children to comprehend the finality of death. Harper clearly doesn’t understand.
I say, “No, sweetheart. Let’s go to your room.”
I cut her a large piece of chocolate cake, sit her next to me in her overstuffed chair, and grab one of the books Fred bought for her. Charlotte’s Web. “Let’s read, Harper.”
She snuggles into me, balancing the cake on her lap and folding her blankie over her.
“‘…out of the darkness, came a small voice he had never heard before. It sounded rather thin, but pleasant. “Do you want a friend, Wilbur?” it said. “I’ll be a friend to you….” ’”
I remember from my childhood that this book is about life and death, the passing of time, friendship, and miracles. My favorite passage is “Human beings must always be on the watch for the coming of wonders.” The sound of my voice lulls Harper to sleep, but I keep on reading…right up to the end.
Funeral
“Dying is an art, like everything else.”
~ Sylvia Plath (1932–1963), “Lady Lazarus”~
Lorraine didn’t have a normal funeral. Fred and Bea agreed on cremation at Bunker Bros. Mortuary near their neighborhood mall and then, afterwards, threw a sort of afternoon tea at the house. If truth be known, I felt uncomfortable going but Fred took it for granted that I would be there, and I did think I could be helpful.
I drive up to the house on a bright, temperate Sunday afternoon. A bunch of old junky cars line the street in front of Bea’s house. A few of them have Haitian liberation or Deadhead bumper stickers and a Ford truck has a silhouette of a naked woman on the passenger door. The Sunday Times is still sitting in its plastic wrap on the driveway and the potted plants have taken a turn for the worse. Leaning against the wall of the screened-in porch are a stack of brightly colored surfboards and a pile of duffels. “That’s odd,” I think.
I walk into the too-small, stuffy living room, which at this point is filled with people, and Bea greets me at the door. I hand her a bottle of wine and a large coffee cake. She is wearing a long, white, starched organza apron with a wide sash, a simple black, tentlike dress, and shiny black ebony beads. Her silver hair is pulled back in a tight plaited bun and she is in her stocking feet. She looks tired and a little out of it.
“Oh, Dora. Come on in. Can I get you a drink?”
“No thanks. Can I help you? With the food or with Harper?”
“That’s nice of you, dear,” she says, jamming a wet hankie in her apron pocket.
“But there really isn’t much to do. I ordered most of the platters from the supermarket up there by the mall. I don’t usually do that, and that’s a fact, but my heart wasn’t in all the preparing. You know when Whiz died, my neighbors took care of everything. Oh my, we had every kind of casserole you can think of and more alcohol than you can shake a stick at. In those days, you had to get your liquor up there at the state blue store and it wasn’t so easy to just run out and get a nip. It’s different now, of course. My uncle Albert, he got so plastered…”
“Hey, Dora. Glad you could come,” Fred says in an impersonal, formal way, stopping Bea in midsentence. He looks stiff and uncomfortable.
“How are you holding up?” I ask.
“Good,” he says, giving me a peck on the cheek, and then whispers, “Glad you’re here.”
“Thanks…well, I’m sure you have a lot to do,” I say as some guests approach. I walk over to a card table where the makeshift bar is set up and pour myself a juice. Harper comes running over to me. She is wearing the outfit I gave her last week, the tights, skirt, and fuzzy pink sweater. She introduces me to her friend from school and the two of them hold hands and disappear down the hallway.
I sit down on the sofa and look around. There is a large manila envelope stuffed with official-looking papers on the coffee table and several large leather-bound photo albums. On the mantel above the fireplace is a modest-looking pewter urn with two candles flanking it, and the same photo of Lorraine and Harper I saw the other night is sitting beside it.
There is something disturbing about an urn. I hate looking at it, although it sure beats an open-casket funeral. I went to one of those once, when my uncle died. We all stood in line to pay our respects and when it was my turn, I notic
ed that his glasses were slightly askew on his overly rouged face. My aunt reached in the casket to adjust his glasses and I noticed a smudge of makeup came off on her hand. I’ve never understood the need to have an open casket. I know that people want to say good-bye, but it seems like added torture to have that last glance of your loved one in macabre maquillage. When my dad died and the creepy funeral director suggested an open casket, we all agreed that a large photo was as far as we wanted to go.
I remember at his funeral, people would say things like “He’s in a better place” or “He’s at peace.” I hated all of that because if you asked him, he wouldn’t want to be there and neither would they.
Lorraine’s friends start to straggle in. There are two tall, dark-haired women in their twenties who look as if they have been sleeping in a very dark room and someone suddenly switched on all the lights. They keep blinking in the afternoon glare and they are both exceedingly pale. It is about seventy-eight, maybe even eighty degrees, but the taller one is wearing a heavy black winter coat with ratty fur trim and black high-heeled ankle-length boots. She wears heavy black eye makeup and black lace crocheted gloves with the fingers cut out. Her name is Violet. Her friend wears a black wool morning coat over jeans and heavy black boots, a kind of Goth, stylized gloom. When Harper sees them, she grins, and both girls give her a long, warm hug. Heartening rather than depressing.
“Hello, precious,” croons Violet. “Oh, my baby. I love you so much. And I am soooo sorry. Your mother would be so proud of you today. You look totally dope.”
“Dora brought me this. It’s for the party.”
“You look amazing,” echoes the friend, who has dragonfly-blue streaks in her hair and some kind of a tattoo on her wrist, which I can’t quite make out. Then they both embrace Bea. These girls could have been close friends of Edgar Allan Poe but somehow, standing next to the regal Bea, it’s more like a twisted Thornton Wilder scene. The three of them make a surprisingly good match. Granted, Lorraine definitely had a messed-up life, but she did have some good friends who seemed to adore her.
Literacy and Longing in L. A. Page 15