I remember friends who’ve died: Jackie Gannon, struck by lightning on a golf course the day after we graduated from college; Mal Terranova, carved his throat open in the shower; Kenny Allen, burned to death in an apartment fire; Richie Legendre, suffered a single, massive heart attack when he was twenty-nine; Butchie Gingras and Tommy Trudeau died in automobile accidents; my cousin Andy Proulx overdosed on heroin; Karen Harper had breast cancer; Frank Bauer was shot while hitchhiking in Oregon; Margie Greenwood, whom I was crazy about when we were fourteen, though she never knew it, fell or was pushed out her fifteenth-floor dorm room at BU. I imagine what these friends might be doing now had they lived. Like, say, I bump into Mal on Shrewsbury Street and we duck into the Wonder Bar for meatball sandwiches and beer, and we catch up on old times. He tells me how much his life has changed since the Prozac, how he’s not so depressed as he used to be. Got a sweet little family now, a house on Solomon Pond, and a sporting goods store in Northborough. He looks good, trim, gray at the temples. Or I imagine that I called Jackie up around nine on the morning after graduation. I told him golf is for old men with funny pants. Let’s drive out to the quarries and go swimming.
There will come a time, I like to think, when I might welcome death. Welcome could be overstating it. When I would at least receive death with courtesy. That would happen when I am old and when my family and my friends have all gone. Who would I be without them, anyway? I would realize that this is now someone else’s world, and I would feel uncomfortable loitering in it.
Stoni walked into the kitchen, poured herself another shot, asked me how I was doing. I said, Fine. She told me Trixie and Hervey were on their way. She sat down. We didn’t say anything. Then the doorbell rang. Stoni said that would be Mike, her friend and a paramedic. Mike came in carrying two large pizzas from the Boynton. He put them on the table, hugged Stoni, shook my hand, introduced us to his partner, Buster. Buster’s two front teeth were missing. He took a bridge out of his pocket and put it in. Stoni said we’d eat and then call Dr. Stouder and have her meet Mike at the hospital. Mike took his two-way radio off his belt, put it on the counter. We heard it crackle, heard the dispatcher send a team to an accident on Institute Road. I got dishes. Stoni closed the door to the bedroom. Mike offered his condolences. Buster asked if we’d mind if he looked around. Go ahead.
Trixie and Hervey arrived with beer and a tray of lasagna. Trixie put the lasagna in the oven. Hervey said, So our little girl is gone. Stoni took them to the bedroom. Buster returned to the kitchen. He told me, You know that old Silvertone radio in the living room, that’s worth some money. He said he’d leave a card. He took one from his wallet, put it on the counter. I deal in collectibles, he said.
While we ate and drank, Trixie called Morin’s Funeral Home, tried to reach Ronnie with no success. Buster and Mike took Judi’s body out to the ambulance. Neighbors looked out their windows. Soon I was alone in Judi’s house. The phone rang, Judi asked the caller to leave a message after the beep, but the caller did not. I went out on the deck. I let Spot off his run, held the back door open for him, but he wouldn’t come in the house. Spot, you’ve changed, I said. He wagged his tail. So we sat on the deck, the pair of us, and I thought about how we all can deal with the fact of our vanishing. Is it even possible? I thought, What do you do when your lover dies? I said to Spot, Why don’t I know what to do? He woofed. Why do I even have to ask the question? Other people were making arrangements and preparations. Trixie would be deciding about casket, flowers, services. Stoni would be seeing to the death certificate and the certificate of disposition and whatever else governments require. All I was doing was talking to my dog about mortality
I felt the need to be kind to someone, and I didn’t know why exactly. Kind or polite, solicitous, noble. Something like that. If someone were with me now, I wouldn’t talk about Judi or me or sickness or suffering and death. I’d get them something cool to drink, something to eat, something I would make. And I’d say, Tell me all about it. I felt sad, like there was a hole in me from my throat to my stomach.
I thought I’d clear my head with another drink. Spot wouldn’t come inside, so I got the bottle and a glass and came back to the deck. I said, Am I going to have to sleep outside tonight? It was dark by then and clear. I stared at the stars and knew that some of them weren’t there. Just their light was. Memory is like that light. The body is gone, the center of the world disappears. I closed my eyes. Gone.
71.
A Fine and Private Place
A. “REQUIEM”
We held Judi’s funeral at Our Lady of the Angels, the burial at Hope Cemetery, and the party at her house. I’ve always suspected that mourners are not so much saddened by the deceased’s passing—though that is certainly true—as we are comforted by the fact that we did not die ourselves, and we display our relief in a quiet ritual. We lucky ones, we bite our lips, lift our brows, fix each other’s gaze. It’s a tender moment.
I walked to Morin’s Funeral Home. I passed the old Hood’s dairy warehouse on Cambridge Street, and that made me think of Mr. Quinn, who drove a milk truck, wore checked overalls and a visored cap. I would see him most summer mornings when I was a kid. I’d ask him for ice, and he’d reach back into his cases and hand me a hunk of clear, smooth, black ice. Was he still alive? He’d have to be eighty by now. Maybe he’s puttering around his house this morning, watering his tomato plants or something. I thought about checking for his name in the phone book, but I knew that widows often keep the listing under their husbands’ names for years after their deaths. A small memorial, I guess.
I remembered Bill Duchesne, our neighbor, who seemed to have it all, in a middle-America kind of way. Worked out of his house repairing small appliances. A Mr. Fix-it. The New England archery champion, of all things. He water-skied, snow-skied, scuba-dived, climbed mountains. He had an elaborate model railroad in his cellar that he let the neighborhood kids play with. He was a Boy Scout troop leader, a blockparty organizer, a civic spokesperson, had a wife, Jan, three kids, Ricky, Paulie, and Verna, a station wagon, a camping trailer, a power mower. And then he drives to a lovers’ lane and fires a bullet through his brain.
I rode from the funeral home to the church in a black limo with Ronnie. That was my first surprise. Somehow Ronnie knew that his little girl had died, and he showed up at Trixie’s house—his old house—with his blue suit on. His duffle bag was out there now in the trailer.
When you ride in a funeral procession, people watch you: the guy smoking a cigar in front of the Diamond Café, the two ladies in the Buick Regal, the kid sweeping up trash in the Burger King lot. And maybe each onlooker would be more pensive, reflective, today because of this. Maybe the man will call his sister in Duxbury, no reason, just wanted to say hi. Maybe we should have hearses cruise through neighborhoods like milk trucks used to. God, I was beginning to sound medieval.
Ronnie said what happened to Judi was the least worst thing. She could have just lingered in pain, could have rallied strength and then just had to go through it all again. He told me he kept hearing this same speech lately, over and over, and he didn’t know if it was a warning, a curse, a promise, a theory, a papal bull, or what it was. He recited: “Whereas the accused Homo sapien, being of dubious merit and euphonious expression and having undergone exquisite torment, to wit, he has sacrificed his ego to ether, has attained release without a body to speak of. Let them all ask who would cast the first stone.” What do you make of it? he said. Ronnie, I think you should ignore it.
My second surprise was the priest who celebrated the Mass—Father Frank O’Connor, Martha’s old drinking buddy and confidant. Turns out he’s an old and dear friend of the Dubeys. His father fished with Ronnie’s brother Rembrandt or something like that. Worcester is such a small town you could just scream. “Also their love,” Father Frank said, “and their hatred, and their envy is now perished . . . ” I was impressed. “But not our love, which is their immortality on earth.” Such as it is, I thought. Ronnie nud
ged my shoulder. Death is just a phase, he said. You get over it. And then Father Frank quoted John Donne: “‘She, she is dead; she’s dead; when thou know’st this,/ Thou know’st how dry a cinder this world is.’ ”
B. “NECROPOLIS”
This city of the dead called Hope. I read somewhere that very few cemeteries in the world are more than three hundred years old. So much for an eternal resting place. Stoni and Trixie sat on wooden folding chairs by the grave. I stood behind them with Ronnie and Hervey. Ronnie whispered, Death is a flirt. The sky was cloudless, the morning already beginning to heat up. Father Frank prayed for Judi’s soul. I could hear traffic from the expressway. Across from me, Layla cried and held on to Pozzo’s arm. Pozzo stood with his eyes closed. I thought, Life is an art, not a science. But what did I mean? That there is no progress because truth, beauty, and mystery are absolutes? Could that be it? We don’t learn all that much from anyone else’s life. It’s like we live for the future, but not our own future. We learn all our valuable lessons too late. It’s just so goddamned sad, this being here and not being here.
And then the casket was lowered. Trixie tossed a bouquet of roses into the grave, Stoni a handful of dirt. Father Frank announced that everyone was invited back to Judi’s. We began to drift away, down the hill toward the line of cars. I looked back, saw the grave, the dirt pile covered not so discretely with an Astroturf mat, saw two gentlemen sitting in a pickup truck, smoking, watching us. Ronnie said, “Death is liquid.” What the hell did he mean by that? You can convert it to cash? It flows? I didn’t ask.
Francis X. came over and shook my hand, offered his condolences.
“Come to the house,” I said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
“I’ve got to work this afternoon. Summer school.”
“You’re Irish. This is a funeral.”
“Can’t.”
“One drink.”
“No.”
We shook hands. He asked me what I was going to do now, said he could arrange it so I got my old job back. He said, You think about it. Give me a call.
I saw the Nybergs get into their car, thought it was sweet of them to come. I wondered if they quarreled about this, Chet saying they hardly knew us, Maryalice insisting this was a neighborly obligation. Maybe she said, Get used to it; people will be dying all around us for the rest of our lives.
C. “COMPANY”
Trixie had cooked for two days and two nights, whenever she wasn’t at the wake. And so had her neighbors. We had tourtière pies, ragout, little hot dogs steamed in beer, Buffalo wings, Vienna roll sandwiches—tuna, egg, ham. We had cold cuts from Shrewsbury Street and bulkies from Water Street. We had lasagna and moussaka, macaroni salad, potato salad, corn salad, green salad. We had cakes, pies, puddings, and peach cobbler. We had coffee and decaf, tea and soft drinks. We had booze. I bought plenty of booze.
I greeted people at the door, took the men’s suit coats and hung them in the bedroom. I made sure whoever wanted a drink got a strong one. Nicky volunteered to tend the bar in the kitchen. Trixie had a buffet table set up on the deck. Spot was in heaven with all the attention and scraps he was getting. I mingled. I heard one man, a friend of Trixie’s I think he was, or a cousin or something, tell another: Around six my girlfriend’s husband calls—he’s my golf partner—and he’s drunk, and he tells me he thinks his wife is having an affair. I don’t tell him that’s absurd—I’m no hypocrite. I tell him to meet me at the club for a drink. So we meet and he wants to know how he can win her back. I tell him flowers, candy, a weekend in Vermont, blah blah blah. He feels better. Then I go home to his wife.
People around me ought to be aware that they are in constant danger of becoming characters in a story. I wondered if these two would recognize themselves. Probably, I thought, they wouldn’t be caught dead reading fiction. But that was a nasty and arrogant appraisal. You never have to search for characters. They walk right up and introduce themselves. Happens all the time. Like last week at Our Lady of the Sea, in walks Dee Dee Wondolowski, whom I hadn’t seen in a dozen years, I bet. The Wondolowskis were neighbors on Warner Avenue when I was growing up. I played with Dee Dee’s older sons. I said, Dee Dee, how have you been? She said, The kids are grown now; we’re just waiting for the dog to die. And then she smiled. An hour or so later, this guy from a road crew comes in and orders a seafood platter. Nicky asks him what he wants on it. The guy studies the menu, says, Just make me one with everything. Nicky yells out, One Buddhist platter to go! You keep your eyes open, your ears unplugged.
My third surprise was Arthur. He’d gotten his release from jail a week earlier when the mistrial was declared. He told me Stoni’s still touchy about, you know, Richie. I said, Well, that’s understandable, right? I mean, you killed him. Didn’t you? Arthur said, Yes, I did, but it was self-defense. Then he said, Killing a man changes everything. I just don’t have the zest for life that I used to.
Dr. Stouder wasn’t here. Neither was the oncologist Pawlak, the surgeon LeClair. But it seemed like everyone else was. I saw Terry Cundall chatting with Ron, Mark, and Albert over by the apricot tree. When I spied her alone later on, I asked Terry about Martha. Terry said, I’m still seeing her in counseling. She’s doing quite well. Quite well. That’s all I can tell you. Actually, I can’t even tell you that. Terry said she was sorry about Judi and all. I thanked her. She didn’t say I still owed her money for our sessions. I didn’t tell her I’d never pay it. She told me, Grief really saturates the air, doesn’t it? Grief keeps the dead alive, she said. Nothing wrong with grief.
I saw Pauline and her carpenter, talking with Dorie. I sat on the steps with Noel, who told me he was thinking of moving back. Nothing he could do for Edmund in Walpole he couldn’t do here. He told me he missed Hervey and Trixie. I tried to imagine Noel and. Ronnie sharing that trailer. Noel told me his health had gone south on him. Emphysema and a bollixed liver, he said. Bilirubins in the stratosphere. He was smoking his Camels, drinking his Miller High Life. Stopping’s not going to do me any good now, is it? he said. He told me Edmund’s some kind of Holy Roller Christian now. He’s going to be a preacher, after all. He said, What time you got? I checked Puusepp’s watch. One-twenty I went inside to freshen my drink. Ronnie winked at me, whispered, Death is the final order.
The indomitable Trixie told Father Frank that Stoni and Arthur would be getting married and presenting her with a grandchild. She hoped it was a girl. Father Frank stared at me. I could see him out of the corner of my eye. Had it just occurred to him where we’d met? I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of introducing myself. Dorie touched my elbow. She said she needed to leave and would I walk her to her car. We stood in the driveway.
“Are you okay, Laf?”
“I’m okay. Thanks.”
“Judi never allowed herself to be a victim.”
“In a way, I think we’re all victims.”
Dorie shook her head, pulled car keys out of her purse. “Only those who won’t change are victims. Of themselves.”
I could buy that because it made me not responsible for Martha. One of the dangers in life is how we keep ourselves the same. With the big change always at the back of our minds, the small changes seem more obvious. I opened the door to Dorie’s little station wagon. She got in. She told me I’d been good for Judi, did I know that? I thanked her for saying so. I mean it, she said. Well, I wanted to believe her, but I felt like a lug. Dorie said, You were there.
I saw Stoni and Arthur in Arthur’s pickup. And then Pauline walked out of the house holding hands with her fortunate carpenter. The opposite of being loved is being ignored. I watched them. They didn’t see anybody. Why is it that we crave passion in our lives, but we need stability and comfort? Passion implies suffering—what faulty synapse leads to this end? Pauline and her craftsman looked like they would live forever if they didn’t wander off into traffic. Mr. and Ms. Natural. Dorie drove away. I waved.
Once when I was single—eighteen years ago, I guess—I found myself in
bed with a woman of my acquaintance. Not a friend, really, but a woman I knew socially, hung out with on occasion. This lovemaking was a surprise to both of us, I think. We had fun and cuddled ourselves to sleep with smiles on our faces. In the morning, she was gone—off to work, her note said. Thanks for last night. Call me. I didn’t. And though we continued to see each other, we never mentioned our tender and delightful indiscretion, and never slept together again. And soon we lost touch. When I think of her now, I wonder how our lives might have been changed if she hadn’t needed to fly off so early or if I had felt her stir in the bed, had touched her, tempted her to linger. I hope Pauline finds herself as wistful one day when she recalls the edgy guy with the funny tooth.
Nicky stayed around and helped me with the cleanup. We watched East of Eden on the television. My God, I thought, I’ve lost my chance ever to be James Dean. I called Edgar. I said, Aaron, this is Cal. He didn’t get it. I told him about Judi. Jesus, Laf, he said, I’m sorry. He told me he’d bought himself a Pollo Tropical franchise in Boca Raton. I said, What does Boca Raton mean? I think it means “Rat Shit,” he said. You sure you’re okay, Laf? Said he and Delores were getting along better than ever. No, I told him, I didn’t want to manage a chicken franchise or a motel. He told me he’d be sending me a big fat check for my share of the motel. I could use it. I figured I could live for three years on seventy thousand dollars. Long enough to get that first big sale to Pink Carnation Press. Edgar told me that Mom was seeing a man, a retired military officer, in fact. Lives in Century Village. I thought, Will I ever see my mother or my brother again?
Nicky fell asleep watching a rerun of The Newlywed Game on cable. I went to the bedroom closet to get him a blanket. I saw my green plaid suitcase on the shelf. Fate is not subtle at all. I covered Nicky, switched off the sound on the tube. My life, all of a sudden, was very simple. I went out to the deck and sat. I said, Spot, what are we going to do? He said, Woof—his answer for everything. I looked up at the night sky. Ten thousand years ago Greek shepherds looked up and saw scorpions, hunters, water bearers. Me, I look up and see discrete specks of light. I feel impoverished. Good thing human development wasn’t left up to me. I can’t change a tire. We’d all still be gathering leafy plants, feeding them to the dogs, watching to see if they went into convulsions. All I can do is make up stories about made-up people. The world, I’m afraid, could get along without me. No child, no wife, no dad, no girlfriend, no certitude, no career, no prospects, no home. Jesus. Well, I had Spot. I had Dale and Theresa. I had, I hoped, a sympathetic reader somewhere. I could expect to die. Everything else, I knew, was a choice. I looked at those stars again, all of them, for the moment, burning for me.
Love Warps the Mind a Little Page 31