Gone (14 page)

Janie shakes her head, puzzled. “What for?”

“That’s what you do when somebody dies. You bring them casseroles and KFC and shit. Charlie got all kinds of food when Dad died in the clink, and nobody even liked my dad. I was in the hospital but Charlie snuck me some . . . God, I’m rambling.” Cabel shuffles his feet. “I’m just going to shut up now.”

Janie hugs him tightly again. “This is really weird.”

“Yeah,” he says. He strokes her hair. Kisses her forehead. “I’m really sorry about Henry.”

“Thanks. I mean, we all knew he was going to die. He’s really just a stranger,” Janie says. Lies.

“Still,” Cabel says. “Anyway, he’s your dad. That’s gotta feel bad, no matter what.”

She shrugs. “I can’t . . .” she says. Doesn’t want to go there. She’s got other immediate things to think about now.

Like how to get her drunk, nightgown-wearing mother to a funeral.

5:59 p.m.

Instead of heating up the house even more by cooking, Cabel picks up dinner. Apparently, the scent of fried chicken and biscuits penetrates the Portal to Sorrow, as Dorothea appears and silently helps herself to the food before retreating once again.

The director from the funeral home calls. Janie first writes things down frantically, then discusses arrangement options with him. She’s relieved to hear that Jews have their funerals as soon as possible. That suits her just fine. And with no relatives to contact, they set the service for the next morning at eleven.

After she hangs up, Janie whips through clothes hampers and gets some dirty laundry together for the Laundromat. She shoves the basket at Cabel, and then she remembers that she promised Cathy a note. She scribbles something on a piece of paper and hands it to Cabe, along with a roll of masking tape. “Can you drive out to Henry’s and stick this on his front door?”

“No problem,” he says. He heads out the door while Janie irons a dress and then wipes the dust off of a pair of ancient, rarely worn flats.

“It’s not fair,” she mumbles. “It’s totally not.”

8:10 p.m.

Cabe shows up at the front door with the laundry—fresh, clean, and almost, sort-of folded. “Note’s on the door, laundry is finished.”

Janie grins and takes the basket. “Thank you. You’re wonderful.”

Cabel grins. “Laundry’s not my strongest area of expertise, but I get by. Can I keep the panties?” He grins and backs out of the house.

“Uh . . . you’ll have to ask my mother.” Janie laughs.

Cabe cringes. “Oof. Fuck and ugh. Hey, I’ll let you get stuff done . . . and give you your space. Call me if you need me. I’ll pick you guys up tomorrow for the funeral, if you want.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Yes, that would be great.”

Janie watches him go.

August 9, 2006, 8:46 a.m.

Cabel knocks on the door. “I’m sorry to bug you,” he says. “I’m not trying to. I know you need space. But here’s a little breakfast so you don’t have to mess with it.”

Janie bites her bottom lip. Takes the tray. “Thanks.”

“Back later.” He sprints across the yards back to his house.

Janie knocks firmly on her mother’s bedroom door.

“What now?”

“Mother? I’ve got some breakfast for you,” she says through the closed door. “Cabel made it. He’s going to be back here at ten thirty to pick us up for the funeral, so you need to be ready.”

Silence.

“Mother.”

“Just set it on my dresser.”

Janie enters. Dorothea Hannagan is sitting on the edge of her bed, rocking back and forth. “Are you okay?”

“Set it there and git outta here.”

Janie glances at her watch, sets the plate on the dresser and leaves the room, a sinking feeling in her gut.

She hops into the shower and lets cool water wash over her. It’s not as hot outside today. That’ll be a relief at the funeral, standing out by the grave site in the sun.

Janie’s only been to one other funeral in her life—her grandmother’s in Chicago a long time ago. That one was in a church and there were lots of blue-haired strangers there. They had ham buns and sugar cookies and orange drink afterward, she remembers, and Janie ran around the church basement with a bunch of distant cousins until the old people made them stop. That’s about all Janie remembers.

Janie chose a grave-site service for Henry. It’s harder for people to fall asleep when they’re standing around outside.

Even the drunk ones.

9:39 a.m.

She remembers now why she’s not fond of dresses.

9:50 a.m.

Janie knocks tentatively on her mother’s door.

There’s no answer.

“Mother?”

With only forty minutes to go before Cabel picks them up, Janie’s getting nervous. “Mother,” she says, louder this time.
Why does everything have to be so hard?

Finally, Janie opens the door. Dorothea is sitting on the bed, a glass of vodka in her hand. Her hair is still greasy. She’s still wearing her nightgown. “Mother!”

“I’m not going.” Dorothea says. “I can’t go.” She doubles over, wraps her arm around her stomach like it hurts, still holding the glass. “I’m sick.”

“You are not sick, you’re drunk. Get your ass into the shower—now.”

“I can’t go.”

“Mother!” Janie’s losing it. “God! Why do you have to do this? Why do you have to make everything so fucking hard? I’m turning the shower on and you are getting in it.”

Janie stomps to the bathroom and turns on the shower. Stomps back to her mother’s room and grabs the drink from Dorothea’s hand. Slams it down on the dresser and it splashes all over her hand. Pulls her mother up by the arm. “Come ON! They are not going to delay this funeral for you.”

“I can’t go!” Dorothea says, trying to sound firm. But her frail body is no match for Janie’s strength.

Janie pulls her mother to the bathroom and pushes her into the shower, still wearing her nightgown. Dorothea yells. Janie reaches in and grabs shampoo, washes her mother’s hair. It’s so greasy that it doesn’t lather. Janie takes another handful and tries again.

Dorothea claws at Janie, also now sopping wet in her dress. Janie holds her mother’s head back so the water runs over her, rinsing out the shampoo. “You ruin everything,” Janie says. “I’m not going to let you ruin this. Now,” Janie says as she turns the water off and grabs a towel, “Take off that ridiculous nightgown and dry yourself. I can NOT believe this is happening. I am so done with this.” Janie turns abruptly and stalks off, soaking wet, to her own room to find something else suitable to wear.

All Janie can hear is some shuffling around in the bathroom. She runs a brush through her hair and fixes her soggy makeup. And then she goes to Dorothea’s bedroom, takes out the dress and undergarments, and carries them to the bathroom. Finds her mother still drying off.

Janie looks at her mother, a bedraggled rat, so thin her bones poke through her skin. Her face is tired, dejected. “Come on, Ma,” Janie says softly. “Let’s get you dressed.”

This time, Dorothea goes quietly, and in the dusty light of Dorothea’s bedroom, Janie helps her mother get ready. Brushes her hair, pulls it back into a bun. Flips the light switch and puts some makeup on her. “You have nice cheekbones,” Janie says. “You should wear your hair back more often.”

Dorothea doesn’t respond but her chin tips up a notch. She wets her lips. “I’m going to need the rest of that glass,” she says quietly, “if I’m gonna get through this.”

Janie looks her mother in the eye, and Dorothea’s gaze drops to the floor.

“I ain’t proud of that, but it’s the truth.” Dorothea’s lip twitches.

Janie nods. “Okay.” She turns as she hears the front door open and Cabel’s car running in the driveway. “We’ll be right there!” she calls out.

“Take your time, ladies. I’m a few minutes early,” Cabe says.

Dorothea drinks the vodka in two swallows and cringes. Breathes a sigh, but it sounds more like a burden than a relief. She takes the bottle of vodka from the table by her bed and fumbles with her purse, pulling out the flask. Filling it, spilling a little, replacing the cap.

Janie doesn’t say anything.

Dorothea closes her purse and turns to Janie. Janie helps her with her shoes.

“Ready?” Janie asks. “After you.”

Dorothea nods. She walks unsteadily to the hallway.

Cabel smiles as the two approach. He’s wearing a dark gray suit and he looks pretty freaking amazing in it. His hair is tamed and still damp, curling up just barely over his collar. “I’m very sorry about your loss, Ms. Hannagan,” he says. He offers his arm to her.

Dorothea looks surprised for a minute, but she gathers her wits and takes his arm as he ushers her to the door and outside to the awaiting car. “Thank you,” she says with rare dignity.

10:49 a.m.

They arrive at the cemetery early. The grave site is obvious by the pile of dirt, the suspended pine box, and the rabbi and cemetery workers around it. There are several other people standing quietly nearby as well. Cabel pulls the car to the side of the narrow road.

Janie gets out of the car and helps her mother out of the front seat. The three of them walk together as the rabbi comes to greet them.

“Good morning,” he says. “I’m Rabbi Ari Greenbaum.” He reaches out his hand.

Janie takes it. “I’m Janie Hannagan. This is my mother, Dorothea Hannagan, and my friend, Cabel Strumheller. I
am the daughter of the deceased.” She’s proud she doesn’t stutter through it, but she’s been practicing in her mind. “Thank you for helping us with this. We . . . none of us is Jewish. Not, really, anyway. I guess.” She blushes.

The rabbi smiles warmly, apparently unbothered by the news. He turns and they walk together to the grave site. Rabbi Greenbaum goes over the details of the ceremony and hands each of them a card with Psalm 23 written on it.

Dorothea stares at the words on the card. She looks up at the casket. Glares at it. Her mouth quivers but she remains quiet.

The strangers approach and stand around the grave site—several men and a few women as well. “From my congregation,” the rabbi explains. “The men prepared your father’s body for burial and sat with him through the night, then acted as pallbearers and carried the coffin here.”

Janie looks up, grateful. Thinking this is all so very strange, but sort of beautiful, too. How thoughtful of these people to do this, and to take the time to come to the funeral of a stranger.

They stand near the grave and wait. Even the birds are quiet as they approach the heat of the day.

Janie stares into the hole. Sees a thin tree root, freshly cut, its raw, white end sticking out of the dirt. She pictures
the casket at the bottom of the pit, under all that heavy dirt, the roots growing and wrapping around it, seizing it, breaking through the casket, seizing the body. She shakes her head to clear it and looks up at the blue sky instead.

Behind her, Janie hears more cars approaching. She turns to look and sees two black and whites. Sergeants Baker, Cobb, and Rabinowitz get out, dressed in uniform. Behind the cop cars is a black sedan and Captain steps out.

Charlie and Megan Strumheller are right behind, still tan from their week at the lake. And then Ethel pulls up with Carrie and Stu. Janie tears up a little. In the distance, a big, brown UPS truck rumbles up the narrow cemetery road. Janie can’t believe it—all these people coming. She looks at Cabe, incredulous. “How did they know?” she whispers. He smiles and shrugs.

It’s time.

The rabbi greets the tiny congregation of attendees and speaks for a moment.

And then.

“May he to his resting place in peace,” the rabbi says.

Before Janie can think, the cemetery workers lower the casket into the grave and soon everyone is looking down on her father in a box. Next to Janie, Dorothea sniffles loudly and sways. Janie grabs her mother around the shoulders and steadies her as the rabbi begins talking again.

And as Janie absorbs the ebb and flow of the rabbi’s words, the musical lilt of the Psalms, a little part of her life suffocates in that pine box in the ground too.

“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.” Janie is startled from her thoughts by the group around her, all reciting aloud. She hurries to find her place on the handout and reads along.

And then the rabbi asks if anybody wants to share a story about Henry.

Janie stares at the grass.

After a moment, Cathy, dressed in her standard UPS browns, clears her throat and steps forward. Janie can feel her mother stiffen.

“Who’s that?” Dorothea hisses to Janie.

Janie squeezes her mother’s shoulder and says nothing.

“Henry Feingold was my customer, and over the years we became good friends,” Cathy says, her voice wavering. “He always had a cup of coffee to offer or a cool drink. And when he found out I like to collect snow globes, he started looking for them when he was buying things for his little Internet shop. He was a really thoughtful man, and I’m going to miss him on my route and . . . I’m grateful to you, Janie, for letting me know that he passed on so I could have a chance to say good-bye. And that’s it.” Cathy steps back to her spot.

“Thank you. Anyone else?”

Cabel nudges Janie. She pokes him back.

And then, and then.

Dorothea says, “I want to say something.”

Janie freaks out inside.

The rabbi nods, and Dorothea takes a few unsteady steps to where she can turn around and face the crowd.

What is she going to say?
Janie glances at Cabe, sees his eyes are worried too.

Dorothea’s thin voice isn’t easy to hear in this wide-open space.

At least, it isn’t until she starts yelling.

“Henry was the father of Janie, here. The only man I ever loved. But he left me after I quit school for him, and my parents wouldn’t let me back home. He was crazy and a horrible person. He ruined my life, and I’m glad he’s dead!” With that, Dorothea fumbles at the zipper of her purse.

“Dear God,” Cabe whispers.

The small crowd is completely shocked into silence. Janie rushes over and guides her mother back to the spot where they were standing. She feels her face boiling and red. Sweat drips down her back. She purposely averts her eyes from the guests. Mortified.