Dorothy on the Rocks (33 page)

“God giveth and God taketh away,” the man of the cloth says. “His purpose is a mystery and his means sometimes painful, but his power and his glory are unquestionable.”

I always find it hard to listen to this type of rhetoric, but I keep my eyes down and my tongue silent.

“In every season there is a time and in every death there is a birth,” he goes on in solemn oval tones. “Let us be reborn here today in the presence of God Almighty, our heavenly Father, who keeps us all in his loving arms and who taught us to pray by saying . . .” Then the minister leads us all in the Lord's Prayer. I fumble along as best I can. It's not a prayer I say easily. Patty's head is down and her eyes are closed as she recites the words. I keep my eyes on Jack's father. His head is bowed, but his lips are still. The broad shoulders slump and his fingers fidget with impatience. This is a man holding on—barely holding on. The prayer ends and the minister moves to the side. A tall young man about Jack's age approaches the front of the room. He is holding a few pages of typewritten text. His hands are shaking as he places them on the podium.

“My name is Bob McNabb,” he begins. Of course, I think,
Jack's friend. “Jack Eremus and I met when we were in sixth grade and have been best friends ever since. He was the best man at my wedding six months ago.” Bob's voice breaks. A woman in the front row sobs loudly. I'm sure it is Bob's wife. A slight blonde woman sits next to her. I have a feeling it's Sheryl. The two of them sit close together, shoulders touching. Jack's mother reaches forward and puts a hand on Sheryl's shoulder. Sheryl turns and looks at her. Jack's mother cups Sheryl's face in her hand. These relationships are deep and go back a long way. Jack's father doesn't move. He is by himself on the other side of the aisle. No one reaches out to him.

Bob recovers his voice and continues the eulogy. When he finishes, he walks over to the coffin, crosses himself, and kneels briefly. Then he rises, touches Jack's hands for a moment, and returns to his seat. His wife kisses him and puts her arm around his shoulders. Bob shudders. A stocky woman with dyed platinum hair gets up and sings “Amazing Grace” in a lovely alto voice. At the end of the song she introduces herself as Jack's Aunt Gladys. She thanks us all for coming and invites us to her home to share memories of Jack and partake of refreshments. The actual interment will take place tomorrow morning at eleven at the Calvary Cemetery. The minister offers a final benediction. Piped-in music plays, and people get up to mingle for a few minutes, offer kind words, and then take their leave. Jack's father stands and shakes hands and accepts condolences.

Mama Rose rises from her seat and tentatively approaches the casket. Her boyfriend steadies her with his arm tightly wrapped around her waist. She falls to her knees on the prayer rail next to the coffin and shakes with emotion. She reaches out and strokes Jack's face. Tears roll down my face.

“Maggie, are you all right?” Patty asks. I nod and smile at her. We are still seated in the back row.

“It's just so sad,” I say.

“I know,” she says, and pats my hand. “Look, I have to find a ladies' room. Do you want to come with me?”

“No, I'll wait here,” I say. Patty leaves through a side door in search of the restrooms. Jack's mother is still kneeling by the coffin, obviously struggling to maintain a grip but losing the battle. Her shoulders shake convulsively. The boyfriend strokes her hair and looks completely useless. Then suddenly Jack's father is standing beside her. He extends his hand and she takes it. He gently helps her to her feet. The boyfriend has the good sense to step aside and disappear into the crowd. The father kisses Mama Rose on the cheek and they embrace for a long moment. The shaking stops and she seems to find her spine. Then the father gently releases her and turns to leave. He walks down the aisle. I see his full face now. He looks familiar and not just because he resembles Jack. Then I notice the limp. His knee appears to be stiff; he walks as if he is wearing an artificial leg. Oh my God! I take a quick breath and my heart skips the next beat. Jack's father is the one-legged man who sat across from me at the monastery, the man who sat with such serenity and stillness. As he passes me, I bow my head in acknowledgment and heartfelt sympathy. He doesn't see me. His eyes are fixed on some distant spot. He is willing himself to get from one moment to the next, one step at a time, and obviously trying to think about nothing.

“Excuse me,” someone says. I look to my left. It's Bob. “Are you Maggie, by any chance?” he asks.

“Yes, I am,” I answer. “What a lovely eulogy. I can tell you loved Jack very much.”

“I did,” Bob says. “He was my best friend.” I stand up and we hug.

“Thank you for letting me know,” I say after a moment. “It helps to be here.”

“Are you going to Gladys's house?” he asks.

“I don't think so. I feel awkward. You understand, don't you?”

“Yes,” Bob says. “Jack was very conflicted about . . .” He doesn't finish.

“About the women in his life,” I offer.

“I think he didn't know how to deal with his feelings. When his mother left, he never got over it. It made it hard for him.”

“I'm glad she came today,” I say, looking across the room to where she is standing. Aunt Gladys is now offering her comfort, and it occurs to me Gladys is her sister.

“Well,” Bob says. “Better late than never.”

Then Patty is at my side, back from the ladies' room. I introduce her to Bob and she offers her sympathy and Bob excuses himself to rejoin his wife. I notice Sheryl is now standing with Gladys and Jack's mother. The lounge lizard boyfriend is nowhere to be seen. Most likely he's out front, smoking a cigarette. Not a bad idea, I think. I look to the front of the room. For the moment no one is near the coffin. This is my chance.

“I'll only be a minute,” I say to Patty.

“Take your time,” she says.

I walk up the side aisle and approach the coffin slowly. Jack is wearing a pin-striped suit, a pale blue shirt, and gray tie. I never saw him wear a suit. I wonder if this is even his. Of course it is, but he looks so out of place in it. But not as out of place in the suit as he looks out of place in the coffin. Life out of order. I kneel down on the prayer rail and bow my head. The tattoo that I saw on Jack's shoulder the first night we were together turned out to
be the Citipati, as he told me. Tibetan. Two dancing skeletons, the Lords of the Cemetery. Did he know? Did Jack sense he was in jeopardy? Is that why he tattooed the macabre duo on his shoulder? The thought gives me a chill.

“Happy trails, my friend,” I say as I reach out and place my hand on Jack's. I can't believe I'm quoting Roy Rogers, but it was the first thing that came to mind, and it's better than thinking about the eeriness of the skeletons. I stay like that with Jack for a few more moments and then leave. I don't look left or right as I move to the back of the room in search of Patty. I don't want to catch anyone's eye. I don't want to speak to anyone. I just want to get out of this funeral home as anonymously as I arrived.

When we get outside, Patty says she's hungry as hell and needs fuel. I need something too, but it's not food. I'd prefer something stiff and on the rocks. An older gentleman smoking a cigar directs us to Eats & Drinks a few blocks away. And just then the blonde, fragile-looking girl, who I'm positive is Sheryl, comes out of the funeral home with Bob's wife. When they see Patty and me they stop and whisper to each other. Then Sheryl comes toward me.

“You're Maggie, aren't you?” she asks.

“Yes, and I guess you're Sheryl,” I say.

She nods and we stand like that in a kind of stalemate for a minute, not wanting to acknowledge each other and yet feeling some need to connect. Finally Patty extends her hand to Sheryl and tells her how sorry she is. Sheryl takes Patty's hand, but she keeps looking at me and I keep looking at her.

“You were with Jack when he died, weren't you?” I say.

“Yes,” she says, tears forming in her eyes. A part of me wants to lunge at her and shake her and ask her why the hell she didn't save him? Why the hell she didn't give him CPR or mouth to mouth,
but I don't. Because I can see in her eyes that she has been asking herself those same questions ever since it happened, and by the strain on her face I know she hasn't found any answers and probably never will.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I say, and she nods again, then turns and rejoins Bob's wife by the front of the church.

“Come on, let's get something to eat,” Patty says, taking my arm and we walk in the direction of Eats & Drinks.

We walk in silence. I can't talk. I can barely breathe.

We get to the diner and take a back booth.

“I'll have a BLT on toast,” Patty tells the waitress. “Coffee and an order of fries. Well done. I don't like them underdone. If they're underdone, I'll send them back.” The waitress is standing on one foot then the other as she writes Patty's order on her pad, then she turns to me.

“Just coffee,” I say.

“You've got to eat something,” Patty says. “Get a piece of pie or a turnover.”

“No, coffee's fine,” I say. “And a scotch on the rocks.”

“For goodness sakes, Maggie. Bring her a slice of a pie,” Patty says, looking at the waitress. “What kind do you have?”

“Cherry, apple, and uh, banana cream,” the waitress says with a roll of her eyes.

“Banana cream would be perfect,” Patty says.

The waitress manages a half smile and walks away. Her feet are killing her. I know because her shoes look brand-new, and by now blisters have formed on one or two of her toes and on the backs of her heels.

“Well, the funeral was certainly interesting,” Patty says, arranging the salt and pepper shakers next to the ketchup and restacking
the sugar and Sweet 'n Low. “And the poor mother. She looks so damaged. How long since she has actually been in the picture?”

“I don't know. Jack moved back with his dad when she left, or ‘ran off,' as he put it. He said his dad was suicidal.”

The waitress delivers my drink and I take a swig and hope it hits the spot. The spot being right in the middle of my aching heart.

“Really? That sounds difficult for Jack,” Patty says.

“I'm sure it was,” I say.

“The human condition. It's not always pretty.”

“I think she left six or seven years ago, at least that's what his friend Bob said. I didn't ask Jack about it. Truth is, Patty, I didn't really know him that well. Amazing, isn't it?” I say. I feel a catch in my throat. I take a deep breath. I don't want to start crying. “I only knew him a few weeks. And now it seems surreal. Like it was a movie I saw.” Patty reaches over and pats my hand.

What is it with women and hand patting? Like that makes everything better. We sit quietly for a few minutes, hands patted, and say nothing. The sounds of the diner percolate in the background.

“The mother is glamorous in a kind of rough-cut way,” Patty says. “She looks like she's been in the desert sun too long with no moisturizer—and that boyfriend—straight out of central casting.”

“Apparently he is an awesome sax player. He plays in the house band at one of the big casinos in Vegas.”

“Well he looks like a reptile in a cheap suit,” Patty says, and then the food arrives. Our waitress, Irene of the sore feet, drops it (literally) on the table. Several fries bounce off Patty's plate and roll toward the edge of the table. They look brown and crispy and very well done. Irene scoops them up and puts them in her apron pocket.

“I'll be back with the coffee,” she hisses under her breath.

“She must have quite a stash in that pocket by the end of her shift,” Patty says.

My banana cream pie is six inches high. The top layer looks like it's made of Styrofoam. Irene returns with two cups of coffee, which she places too firmly on the table; a few drops splash out of the cups onto the saucer.

“Enjoy your meal,” she says with a frown. I finish my drink and order another.

“Aren't you even going to try the pie?” Patty asks, taking a big bite of her BLT. I poke at it for a minute, wondering where the bananas are hiding.

“The strange thing is, Patty,” I say, “I've seen Jack's father before.”

“Really? Where?” she asks, her mouth full of bacon, lettuce, and tomato.

“At the retreat I went to last week. He was sitting across from me the whole time.”

“Wow,” she says.

“It's eerie. It was a silent retreat so we never spoke, but I noticed him in particular because he has only one leg.”

“Oh my God,” Patty says between bites.

“Today he was wearing a prosthesis, but at the retreat he used crutches. And the last day he wasn't there. He must have gotten a call from the hospital or the cops, because that was the day Jack died.”

“That
is
really strange,” Patty says.

“I'm sure this is horrible for him.”

“The worst,” Patty says. “The worst kind of loss.”

And just like that I'm crying again, big sloppy tears coming out
of my eyes and falling onto my Styrofoam pie. Patty reaches over and pats my hand again.

“I'm going to the ladies' room,” I tell her and slide out of the booth. I look around for the restrooms. I see Irene behind the counter, scowling at a customer.

“Ladies' room?” I ask. She points to a hallway. I follow her direction. A sign points down a steep set of stairs. I make my way down and find the door with “Dames” on it. Once inside I start to sob uncontrollably. I sit on the toilet and let it happen. I weep and cry and sob and sputter and moan. I don't know how long I stay in there, but when I get back to the table Patty is having a refill of coffee and finishing off a piece of cherry pie à la mode.