Miles (13 page)

I
had already called the Polish priest at Holy Rosary to ask him to preside over the
funeral service, and to reserve the church for that purpose, my parting shot to
the Huns, who would no doubt be shivered to their timbers about making such a
fateful trip back to the old neighborhood.  The Pole was a little terse on
the phone, but I imagined he was carrying on like that to hide his dismay at
the grim tragedy of it all.

I
was, too, I guess.

I
then called
Lawrence
's house.  I was relieved he picked up the
phone instead of Aunt Hilly.  I apologized briefly and he accepted with
gushing grace, insisting I let him take care of the wake the following
night.  He wanted to hold it at a client's funeral home, a friend he had
gone to the
University
of
Illinois
with.  I agreed, and apologized again,
mostly because Nicolasha had prevailed upon me earlier to do so.

The
professor wasn't home.  Neither was Brennan, damn it.

That
left my phone call to
Florida
.

I
ran my hand through my wet hair, waiting for the other line to be picked
up.  I was nestled in the corner of our sofa, where the raging fireplace
warmed my legs, which were propped up on a bulky hassock placed in front of
me.  I had brought my Shostakovich record downstairs to listen to again,
but hadn't switched it on yet, unlike every single light in every room I could
turn on in the house.

"Happy
Holidays."

"Mrs.
Cromwell."  I could hear a festive gathering in the background. 
My mind spun in turmoil, trying to decide whether I bitterly resented the
cheer, or desperately wanted to be there.  "Is Felix there?"

"The
Hitman!  Sure, let me get him."  She called for her other
son.  "I’d spank you for that ‘Mrs. Cromwell’ but I think you might
enjoy it!”  Could she hear my involuntary smile?  “We can't wait for
you to land tomorrow!"

My
jaw and eyes closed tightly.  I couldn't bring myself to say anything else
until Felix took the phone and said 'hello' twice. 
"Felix?"  I was determined to keep myself composed, like I had
with the priest and the lawyer, but my voice betrayed everything that was
fermenting deep inside of me.  Felix yelled for everyone to be
quiet.  The rest of his family ignored him.

"What's
the matter, buddy?"  I had trouble talking, again.  Deep
distress flooded into his gentle voice.  "You're not coming, are
you?"

"No." 
That I could say out loud.  "I can't."  I fought with my
heaving chest and short breaths, but lost to the few tears that rolled down my
face and rested between my cheek and the receiver.  

"Is
it your parents?"  The festivities quieted down considerably. 
Felix sounded furious.  I didn't know he even had a temper.  "Tell
me what they said.  Please."

I
refused to speak until I was sure I wouldn't break down in the middle of a
sentence.  My best friend probably thought I was blowing him off, or
trying to think of a really good lie.  "My Mom and Dad...they're
dead...got killed...by some...by a drunk driver."  I covered the
mouthpiece with my hand to keep my halting sniffles a private affair. 
"Last night."

"Oh
my God..."  I heard Felix start fumbling with the phone.  He
took a few seconds before coming back on.  I couldn't tell if he was
crying, too.  His voice sounded completely different, though. 
"Are you OK?  Were you hurt?"  I listened as Arlene
whispered urgently to Felix, wanting to know what was going on. 

"I
wasn't in the car."  I ran out of things to say.  Felix told his
mom in a vicious whisper what little I said.  "I have to go."

"I'm
flying up in the morning.  So will my family, if they can."

"You
don't have to, Felix."  I didn't expect him to say that.  I
don't know what I expected, aside from bursting out in tears for the three
hundredth time that year.  I wondered if all these crying sessions meant I
was a manic depressive.  My voice winnowed down to a squeak. 
"I'd rather be there with you guys, anyway."

"I'll
be there by lunch."  His voice was collected and serious.  I
knew there and then he'd come, and almost began to feel a flash deep inside of
me.  "Try and get some sleep now, OK, buddy?"  It was
almost
midnight
in
Florida
. 

"I
will," I said, even though we both knew I wouldn't.  The fire needed
some more logs.  "Thanks, Felix."  I was too disoriented to
wonder why I was thanking my friend for being a part of the most difficult
phone call of my life. 

His
voice was filled with emotion and pain.  "You're my best
friend."

He
hung up before I could reply.

*

I
turned off all of the lights I had just turned on before I began my phone
calling.

I
was convinced I would stay up all night to watch the flames in the fireplace
run their course, only to turn my attention to the vast, intricate patterns of
blackness I would find on the ceiling above me.

But
I didn't.  Still wearing my new robe, I huddled myself in one of our
hand-woven blankets from
Mexico
and plunged into a leaden, dreamless sleep well
before the logs had extinguished themselves or
Hamlet
had finished
playing.

* * *

There is a world elsewhere.

Coriolanus

It
was the longest day of my life.

While
I took my morning shower, I presupposed that the wake would go smoothly, as smooth
as such events can go, while the funeral itself would be the "hard"
part.  After all, when Papu Kasza passed on to the great ward organization
in the sky, I was devastated by the wake, and assumed the burial would be that
much worse.  Sure, I was younger and slightly more foolish when that
happened, but why would that impact on my assumption?

Thus
did I begin my interminable voyage across the tumbling and uncharted seas of
the ritual of death, Roman Catholic-style.

*

Uncle
Alex and Veronica came over around ten that morning.  My Uncle had quite
obviously drank himself to sleep only a few hours before, but I was relieved
that he hadn't found any other form of pharmaceutical morphine to help
him...cope...if inhaling a few bottles of gin falls under that category.

Veronica
suggested we needed to pick out what Mom and Dad were going to wear.  I
stared at her without comprehending.  Was this a party or something? 
They're dead, missy.  I wasn't sure appearances were the most important
thing on their minds now.  What the hell was she on
about?    

"For
the wake, baby."  Baby?  Don't you call me that.  My Mom
called me that.  "We have to decide what clothes to bury them
in." 

I
thought they were being buried in a coffin.

Uncle
Alex stood uselessly in between us, staring at the family pictures lining the
hallway leading to my parent's old bedrooms.  Veronica glanced sideways
and unhappily at him.  "I'll pick out something."  

Fine. 
Dad was probably in the middle of negotiating with Saint Peter as we spoke. 

She
emerged a few minutes later with one of my Mom's best dresses, a blue silk with
silver piping, tailor-made to show off her breasts and her antique pearls, an
outfit that screamed 'I have more money
and
more taste than the rest of
you whores'.  Was there a dress code in the afterlife?  "Isn't
that a little bit much to be buried in?" 

Veronica
shrugged her shoulders, and held out her other selection, Dad's Navy dress
whites.  I nodded at that choice.  Uncle Alex began shaking his head
like there were something rolling around inside of his skull.

"We
can't have the caskets open.  They told me."

Veronica
turned away.  I went into my bathroom and washed my face and hands until I
heard them go downstairs.

*

A
young guy with a black crew cut, maybe a few years older than I was, greeted us
in the lobby of the funeral home. Why do funeral homes smell so distasteful,
like the doctor's office, or a confession booth?  He introduced himself as
Roger and shook my hand like an ape.  Must be the son of
Lawrence
's
school mate, I thought.  He had the hands and shoulders of someone who
worked in construction during the summer, and wore a ugly beige suit so badly
cut, it had to be a hand-me-down.

Roger
escorted us into a large room in the back of the parlor that was filled,
wall-to-wall, aisle-to-aisle, with coffins.  Fucking coffins!  He
cleared his throat and asked us to choose a pair, before running down the
portico to answer a ringing phone.

I
gazed out at the showroom of coffins.  Choose a pair, huh?  Hey,
everybody, look!  We're shopping for coffins!  "What about that
one?"  I pointed to a sleek, jet black model directly in front of us.

Veronica
shook her head.  "It’s too masculine for your mom."

"Fine." 
I pointed at a creamy white oblong job next to it.  "That one for
her."

Veronica
shook her head again, taking a closer look at the white casket.  I noticed
she was wearing one of Mom's French scarves.  "It's still...well,
old-fashioned."

Old-fashioned? 
"Fine."  I walked over to a pair of caskets in the corner that
were molded from aluminum alloy.  One was silver, and the other was a
light gold.  "These are modern."

"Don't
you think they seem...cheap?"

I
grabbed at the silver's price tag, hanging from one of the side grips. 
Fifteen hundred dollars?  "They aren't."

Veronica
shook her head yet again, her eyes locked on a casket I could see was made out
of ebony.  "What about this one?"  How many clarinets could
you make out of that?

Uncle
Alex beamed back down to Earth and spoke up.  "That looks too
expensive."

I
exhaled angrily through my teeth.  Roger came back into the room and
smiled stupidly at me.  Jabbing a thumb over my shoulder to indicate the
burial box boutique, I snarled, "Which one of these things are
popular?"

Roger
hurried over to a rose-colored casket with a metallic finish.  "This
one is, sir.  It's very nice."  He said that as if he were
pointing out a sunroof on a Jaguar sedan.  I stormed over to him and
pushed my hand down inside the box, testing the mattress, as it were.

"It
feels like raw springs with a bed sheet over them."

Roger
blushed and looked away from me.  "They're all like that,
sir."  Well, what if they're not dead yet?  Hm?  Laying
there on that lot, they'll come back and haunt us, I was convinced. 
"But look at these!"  Look at these whitewalls!  He pointed
wildly at the casket's handles, miniature sculptures of Biblical scenes, not
unlike the Stations of the Cross.

*

The
florist was a friend of Mom's.  Her hands shook as she leafed through a
large binder which contained hundreds of pictures featuring different floral
arrangements, wreaths, bouquets, and so on.  All the ones I really liked
were meant for weddings.

Uncle
Alex dropped a hand-blown crystal swan.

Veronica
insisted on examining each of the funeral setting pictures like they were plans
for the latest Soviet nuclear submarine.  I played with the florist's
shaggy Chow, who took a liking to me after I kept feeding him Christmas
cookies, which I took from the pocket of my pea coat.

Breakfast,
you see.

Veronica
was torn between a pair of full settings, raised flower pots, church pew
decoratives, and wreath.  One was mostly purple.  The other had a lot
of yellow and blue. Uncle Alex liked them both.  The florist was
delighted.  They were both expensive.  I reached across the three of
them and flipped the page to an even more elaborate full setting, which had
been initially rejected because it consisted solely of costly red roses.

"That's
the one.  I want these."

No
one argued with me.  The Chow tried to follow me out the door.  It
was beginning to snow again.

*

"Are
you hungry, baby?"

I
swore, if she called me that again, I would strangle her with Mom's
scarf.  The back seat of Uncle Alex's rented Ford Granada was
uncomfortable.  "Yeah, I guess."

"Alex?" 
My uncle stared out of his window, evidently counting snowflakes or
something.  She called his name again before he looked back at her with
glazed eyes.  "Would you like to stop for lunch?"  He
nodded.  Veronica kept to her driving, rather than fish for any more bad
conversation.

I
saw a Greek-owned family restaurant coming up on the right.  You know the
sort.  Open twenty four hours with a huge menu (even though the burgers
and breakfast were the only things worth having), complete with a giant,
flashing tower that proudly featured the words
STEAKS  CHOPS 
COCKTAILS  FOUNTAIN
, and, of course,
FINE
FOOD
. 
The only thing missing was
EXP WAI
TRES
WANTD
on the marquee, but that was because it was
HAPY
XMAS SEASN
.

I
was in the middle of my salty French onion soup when Veronica looked at me with
the kind of cheery, perky,
HAPY
smile that would irritate me when I
watched one of the local newscasts on TV.  She crushed an unopened bag of
crackers before pouring the remains into her thick bowl of mushroom soup while
Uncle Alex busied himself with over-buttering a pair of Ry-Krisps.

The
waitress refilled our coffee, unable to keep from looking over her arm at my
face.

"I
was thinking."  This is good, I thought.  She thinks. 
"After all of this is over," you know, like a long, boring movie is
eventually over, "maybe we should all go down to Miami, or San Diego,
someplace warm."  Why, in God's name?  "The three of
us.  They would have wanted us to."  ‘They’? 
They
aren't even in the ground yet, you scavenger.  "What do you think,
baby?"

Where
was Mom's scarf?

*

It
was the day after Christmas.  We should have been returning all the gifts
we really didn't like, and snapping up the half-price discounts on the good
leftovers. 

Three-thirty,
and the low, grey sky outside the funeral home was already turning dark. 
Flurries of snow had been blowing since lunch.  Someone mentioned there
was a blizzard on the way for the entire Midwest.  Every time somebody
came in the front entrance, cold, fat gusts of wind followed them
through.  I was hit by one of these drafts as I exited the men's bathroom,
where I had just washed my hands and face again.  The florist's delivery
man, an older black gentleman with kind eyes and a grey moustache, struggled
with his goods as Roger nervously escorted him into "The Resting
Room" without lifting a finger to help the man carry anything.

I
caught the young-and-old pair of ladies in the funeral home office looking at
me like I was a Bengal tiger or something, locked in a small cage they didn't
want to get too close to.  I slammed the glass door against its supporting
glass wall to give the hags something to talk about as I withdrew to watch the
gloomy December sunset.

I
stood restlessly in between Uncle Alex's rent-a-car and the funeral home's
early model Cadillac station wagon.  The florist's van was parked in the
middle of the parking lot with its side door open.  The delivery man
glanced sadly at me as I ignored the dropping temperature and let the falling
snow build up on my hair and grey tweed suit jacket.

"You
should go back inside, child."  He reached into the van and handed me
a short-stemmed rose before he continued bringing in the various floral
arrangements.  I looked at the incongruous flower for a long time, watching
the edge of the petals roll backward as snowflakes landed upon them.  I
broke off the bottom of the stem and inserted the remainder into the button
hole of my lapel.  I wasn't sure if wearing the thing would be considered
untoward. 

I
could still make out a hint of the rose's fragrance as I stalked back into the
chilly and silent Resting Room, now festooned with flowers, empty chairs, and
Mom and Dad's matching coffins, which were decorated with an odd assortment of
framed pictures showing them in rather a better state than they were today.

*

"Oh,
I'm so sorry."

"God
bless you."

"What
a terrible, terrible thing."

"If
there's anything you need..."

"We
were such good friends."

"You
look charming in that suit."

"He
was my favorite cousin."       

"They've
gone to a better place."

"We're
here for you."

"You
look tired."

"The
flowers are beautiful, just beautiful."

"Our
prayers are for you."

"How
could this happen?"

"Why? 
Oh, why?"

"She
was a wonderful woman."

"God
be with you, little friend."

"What
happened to your face?"

"I
can't find the words."

"You've
grown so much."

"Be
strong."

"Can
we do anything for you?"

"Horrible."

"I
know they'll always be with you."

"Everything
looks so nice."

"Call
if you need anything."

"At
least there was no suffering."

"We'll
all miss them."

"Aren't
any of your friends here?"

"Try
not to take it very hard."

"If
there's something I can do..."

"How
are you holding up?"

"I
didn't know you could buy so many roses in December."

"My
God, on Christmas Eve!"

"You
poor dear."

"We
have to keep in touch."