Angel in the Parlor (3 page)

Their mother wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Can Theo watch the kids while we pick out the casket? John is soaking his foot by the TV.”

“I'll stay,” Erica said quickly.

“No. We need you,” said her mother.

When they arrived at the funeral home a thin rain was falling. The tiny green blossoms from the maple trees crunched underfoot and gave off a heavy sweetness. Her mother, cradling the clothes, opened the door and motioned first Erica and then Kirsten inside.

“I've done this twice before—once for my mother and once for my father,” she announced proudly. “When my father died, all the rooms were filled. We nearly didn't get one. But I'm glad that Hal's funeral will be in the church.”

They entered the vestibule. A dull light rose from the bronze bowls of the floor lamps that lined the corridor, peculiar trees of an underground kingdom. As they started upstairs a large, silver-haired man sneaked up behind them.

“Mrs. Widholm? I'm Mr. Metzger,” he said, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And you've come about the casket. Right upstairs. Just make yourselves at home. My office is across the hall if you need me.”

“Thank you,” said Kirsten, and they all three reached the landing and stepped over the threshold into the fluorescent noon of the display room. The windows were papered over with caged birds, so steeped in stillness they seemed part of some fabulous household under enchantment.

Her mother walked down the first aisle, fingering the caskets that stood open-mouthed like gigantic shells, price tags and guarantees lying inside like pearls.

“The wood is nice,” her mother said, “but I don't like green ruching, do you? It's too fancy.”

Erica touched the wooden lid, marveling at the workmanship. The thing could as well go into a living room as into the ground.

“Here's a rosewood one,” Kirsten said. “It looks like Grandma's old piano.”

“Maroon velvet,” her mother said. “That's nice. It's the color of the bathrobe I gave Hal before we were married.”

They all bent down to examine the price.

“Two thousand dollars,” Kirsten said.

For several moments no one spoke.

“The first one is fifteen hundred,” Kirsten said.

“Let's think about it,” said her mother, “while we pick out the vault.”

“The vault?” repeated Erica.

She followed her mother to a table set with three boxes, the first painted bronze, the second silver, the third gold, and each of them cut away to show the structure, like a classroom model of the pyramids.

“What's the difference between them?” asked Kirsten.

Mr. Metzger appeared as if summoned by their ignorance. In the bright light his lips looked heavy, his hands huge; two ruby rings ignited his knuckles.

“The vaults are lined with asphalt or plastic.” He touched first the silver model and then the gold. “Now, if it was me, I'd prefer the plastic. I've seen the tests. It's specially sealed.”

“But are they waterproof?” asked her mother anxiously. “I'd hate to think of Hal floating around down there.”

“The plastic ones are guaranteed. Guaranteed. The asphalt … well”—he opened his palm toward Kirsten—“you can't be absolutely sure. The bronze-plated model is ordinary steel. It runs about a hundred dollars less.”

“We'll take the plastic one,” her mother said. “Will it look just like the model?”

“We paint them to match the casket. Have you found one you like?”

“That wooden one over by the wall,” Kirsten said.

Mr. Metzger strolled over to it and studied it gravely.

“Now, if it was me, I think the interior is a little too fussy for a man. The rosewood one behind it has a very simple interior. Very masculine, I think.”

“Why, my goodness,” said her mother, as if caught in an embarrassing mistake. “I guess we'd better take
it.
”

They followed Mr. Metzger into his office and sat in three chairs drawn into an intimate arc around his desk. Her mother laid the clothes on the papers and pads that littered the desk. Mr. Metzger slid into place like the last piece in a simple puzzle. Erica watched his hands as they glittered among documents.

“This is the death certificate. The doctor will fill it in. The first one costs two dollars. There's a fifty-cent charge for the others.”

Her mother and Kirsten touched it, bewildered.

“You should have some for all legal purposes. It's not the expense—it's the inconvenience of not having one when you need it.”

“I'll have twenty-five,” her mother said.

Mr. Metzger rubbed his eyes. “Well, that's quite a lot of them,” he said.

“How about ten?” suggested Kirsten.

Mr. Metzger wrote “10” on his pad.

“And then there's the minister,” he said.

“How much does he usually get?” asked her mother.

“From fifteen to fifty dollars.”

“I'll give him fifty,” her mother said.

Mr. Metzger wrote “50.”

“And the organist. Fifteen or ten,” he said.

“Fifteen,” said her mother.

“And the flowers,” he said. “A blanket of roses runs fifty-two dollars. Carnations run a bit cheaper.”

“Roses,” said her mother. “They're more sentimental.”

“For two dollars more you can have a ribbon lettered with ‘Husband' or ‘Father.'”

“I'll have both,” her mother said, “so people will know they're from the family.”

“For fifteen you can also get half a dozen sweetheart roses and a small white satin pillow lettered with ‘Grandfather' in gold script.”

“We'll take one,” said her mother

He wrote “15” and then he reached into a drawer and pulled out a folder and a package of vellum cards.

“The plaque you can pick out later. I understand you have your lots on Sunrise Hill. They don't allow headstones there. Spoils the landscaping, they say.”

“No headstones?” said Kirsten.

“Just bronze plaques. Mrs. Widholm, was your husband a Mason?”

“A Mason?” her mother said.

“Or an Elk? You can have any emblem you want put on the plaque. Any emblem at all. And if you pick out a plaque for yourself at this time, we can match the bronze and give you a cheaper rate.”

Mr. Metzger fanned the vellum cards across his desk.

“Some people like to have these by the register for visitors to take. Inside you'll find the Twenty-third Psalm embossed in gold. You get a hundred for twenty dollars.”

“Kirsten, you'd like these, wouldn't you? I'll take a hundred,” said her mother.

“We'll send a car for you at ten tomorrow morning,” Mr. Metzger promised. “The First Congregational Church, isn't it? Oh, one more thing. Would you like the casket open or closed?”

“Open,” Kirsten said. “I haven't seen Papa for a whole year. I want to say goodbye.”

“Here comes Minnie,” said Danny, standing at the front door. “Is it time to eat?”

Erica and Kirsten crowded behind the children and they all pressed their faces against the panes. A short, sprightly woman in slacks and a tweed coat was ransacking the trunk of a Volkswagen parked in the driveway.

“Aunt Minnie's hair—it's so white,” Kirsten said.

And her mother, who had trained herself to hear through walls, called out from the kitchen, “She's let it go natural. But she's got a wig for the funeral. Wait till you see her in it—she looks just like she always did. At the reunion everybody knew we were sisters.”

“Look at her big suitcase,” Joan said. “Is she moving in?”

“No, that's her vitamins,” said Erica's mother, coming into the hall.

Minnie let the door slam behind her and dropped her suitcase in the hall. The mirror over the telephone table rattled.

“I
knew
I'd be coming here!” Minnie announced. “I got myself weighed at Woolworth's, and the card said I'd be taking a trip very soon.”

“It's your ESP,” Erica's mother said, taking Minnie's coat and hanging it on the rack. “Dinner's on the table. Come and eat.”

They trooped into the dining room and everything around them tinkled—the cups and plates stacked unevenly in the china cabinet, the silver set out on the sideboard as if for a consecration.

John had already found his usual place and was unscrewing the lid from a bottle of pickled cherries.

“I can't take Hal's chair,” her mother said. “I just can't.”

Everyone looked at the empty chair. Of all the dining room chairs, her father's alone had survived two generations of children; it was still upholstered in its original horsehair.

“Let me take it,” said Theo. “Pass me your plates.”

They seated themselves while her mother brought in the salad.

“Anyone want one of my pickled cherries?” John asked. “I marinated them myself.”

Silence.

“Or some dandelion wine? No?”

He poured himself a glass.

“I'll have some wine,” Theo said.

John hobbled over to the china cabinet and rummaged among the cups for a goblet.

“You and I are the only hard drinkers around here, aren't we, young man?” John said.

“Mother, stop waiting on us,” Erica pleaded, following her into the kitchen. “Sit down.”

Her mother was looking into the open refrigerator and wiping her eyes with a dish towel.

“Look at those custards I made for Hal. Erica, you always loved custard. I made them the night Hal went to the hospital and I forgot to turn the oven off, but they don't look too bad.”

“I'll taste one,” Erica said, taking a spoon from the drawer. She touched the spoon to her lips. She thought of her father's mouth. She put down the spoon.

In the dark living room after dinner the movie projector clattered to a halt, and the image on the screen vanished. The children, sprawled on the floor, sat up. Erica cocked her head and listened for Theo, hoping he had not gone to bed.

She felt across the end tables for the lamp. Click. Click. Nothing happened.

“You've got to jiggle it,” her mother said.

“Mother, where's John?” asked Kirsten, who hated the absence of anyone at a family gathering.

“Upstairs, soaking his foot.”

“I'm ready,” said Danny, turning on the projector.

Nudging close to Erica on the sofa, Minnie put on her glasses.

The projector hummed. A throng of shades came into focus.

“It's my wedding!” Kirsten cried.

“Why, there's Mrs. Corkin,” her mother said, genuinely pleased. “She died last year. How nice to see her again. And there's my mother!”

“And there's Jack Teal. And Harold Bitterjohn,” said Kirsten. “Funny how many of Papa's students are dead now, isn't it?”

Grandma Schautz was shaking hands with Reverend Lemon; both of them were dead now. It seemed to Erica she was watching a pageant in which the actors wore a makeup that erased time. Her grandfather stood rigid and smiling under the pear blossoms.

Joan reached out and touched Erica's knee.

“Where are
your
wedding pictures?”

“In my head,” said Erica. “We eloped.”

“I hope you had a ceremony,” said Minnie.

“I want a cartoon,” said Anatole.

“Look!” said Kirsten sharply. “There's Papa!”

Erica caught her breath. For there before them stood her father, walking through the rock garden, on the sunny side of the house, which the weeds had long since overtaken. Young, dark-haired, slim in his white flannel suit, he smiled at them engagingly.

“Is that the old grandpa who died?” asked Anatole. “Did he get new again?”

All the next morning the sound of bath water running upstairs drowned out the cries of the children playing by the TV. It was Theo who first noticed they were gone.

“Wouldn't you know they'd disappear,” said Kirsten, peering out the front door. “With the car coming in half an hour, wouldn't you know!”

“We'll fan out,” said Minnie. “I'll check the basement. They were looking at the old Christmas decorations this morning.”

“I'll check upstairs,” Erica said. “Theo, you check the yard.”

She glanced perfunctorily into the guest room, the study, the bathroom. The door to her mother and father's bedroom was closed. She knocked gently and then turned the knob. The door did not open, but as if by some confusion of cause and effect, the telephone rang.

Erica rattled the door. The phone rang again. She raced into the study and snatched the receiver off the hook. “Hello?”

“This is Mrs. Hanson, across the street. I see the children are out on your roof. I hate to butt in, but I thought you should know.”

Though she flew downstairs, Erica was the last person to reach the yard. A little crowd of neighbors had joined Kirsten and Minnie and Theo and her mother. The children were dancing at the edge of the roof that slanted over the sun porch. Anatole fanned the air with his arms; a giant patchwork of feathers, scarfed to his wrists, rippled green and scarlet and blue.

“My turn,” yelled Joan. “My turn to fly.”

“Don't jump!” called Kirsten. “John's bringing the ladder.”

A clatter silenced them all. The top of the ladder leaned itself on the opposite edge of the roof. As John's head appeared over the eaves Joan shouted, “Fly, Anatole! Here they come!”

Anatole gave a loud yell, and flapping his useless wings, he sailed off the roof into the evergreens below.

“Not a scratch on any of them,” said her mother. “Not a scratch.”

The weasel-faced young man driving the limousine shook his head.

“Kids have nine lives,” he observed sagely.

Erica felt faint, as if locked in a capsule. A warm breeze rocked the heads of the trees outside.

“Where's John?” said Anatole.