Literacy and Longing in L. A. (14 page)

“Do you want to see a picture of my mommy?”

“I’d love to,” I answer. Oh god.

She takes my hand, leads me into the room, and shows me a small, framed photo from the bedside table. The picture is of Harper and her mother standing on the beach. Lorraine looks shockingly young, a dark-haired, solemn girl in her early twenties with her arms around Harper. The room is poorly lit, with Indian madras fabric sewn as curtains and an Indonesian caftan on the bed. There are carved, wooden gargoyle-shaped candleholders on a small bookshelf and heavy silver cross necklaces hang over the sides of the headboard. The bedside table is cluttered with a dirty ashtray, a crushed box of Camels, packages of gum, and an open can of Diet Coke. On the floor next to the bed are some well-worn Doc Martens and a pile of dirty clothes. It’s clear that Bea doesn’t come into this room. Harper’s blanket is on the bed next to a few Barbies, some glitter nail polish, and a can of Aqua Net. There is a small TV in the corner with some children’s tapes on top.

“Do you want to wait here for my mommy to come
home?” Harper asks as if I’m one of her playmates. I’ve been told that it takes some time for children to comprehend the finality of death. Harper clearly doesn’t understand.

I say, “No, sweetheart. Let’s go to your room.”

I cut her a large piece of chocolate cake, sit her next to me in her overstuffed chair, and grab one of the books Fred bought for her.
Charlotte’s Web
. “Let’s read, Harper.”

She snuggles into me, balancing the cake on her lap and folding her blankie over her.

“‘…out of the darkness, came a small voice he had never heard before. It sounded rather thin, but pleasant. “Do you want a friend, Wilbur?” it said. “I’ll be a friend to you….” ’”

I remember from my childhood that this book is about life and death, the passing of time, friendship, and miracles. My favorite passage is “Human beings must always be on the watch for the coming of wonders.” The sound of my voice lulls Harper to sleep, but I keep on reading…right up to the end.

Funeral

“Dying is an art, like everything else.”

~
Sylvia Plath (1932–1963),
“
Lady Lazarus
”~

L
orraine didn’t have a normal funeral. Fred and Bea agreed on cremation at Bunker Bros. Mortuary near their neighborhood mall and then, afterwards, threw a sort of afternoon tea at the house. If truth be known, I felt uncomfortable going but Fred took it for granted that I would be there, and I did think I could be helpful.

I drive up to the house on a bright, temperate Sunday afternoon. A bunch of old junky cars line the street in front of Bea’s house. A few of them have Haitian liberation or Deadhead bumper stickers and a Ford truck has a silhouette of a naked woman on the passenger door. The Sunday
Times
is still sitting in its plastic wrap on the driveway and the potted plants have taken a turn for the worse. Leaning against the wall of the screened-in porch are a stack of brightly colored surfboards and a pile of duffels. “That’s odd,” I think.

I walk into the too-small, stuffy living room, which at this point is filled with people, and Bea greets me at the door. I hand her a bottle of wine and a large coffee cake. She is wearing a long, white, starched organza apron with a wide sash, a simple black, tentlike dress, and shiny black ebony beads. Her silver hair is pulled back in a tight plaited bun and she is in her stocking feet. She looks tired and a little out of it.

“Oh, Dora. Come on in. Can I get you a drink?”

“No thanks. Can I help you? With the food or with Harper?”

“That’s nice of you, dear,” she says, jamming a wet hankie in her apron pocket.

“But there really isn’t much to do. I ordered most of the platters from the supermarket up there by the mall. I don’t usually do that, and that’s a fact, but my heart wasn’t in all the preparing. You know when Whiz died, my neighbors took care of everything. Oh my, we had every kind of casserole you can think of and more alcohol than you can shake a stick at. In those days, you had to get your liquor up there at the state blue store and it wasn’t so easy to just run out and get a nip. It’s different now, of course. My uncle Albert, he got so plastered…”

“Hey, Dora. Glad you could come,” Fred says in an impersonal, formal way, stopping Bea in midsentence. He looks stiff and uncomfortable.

“How are you holding up?” I ask.

“Good,” he says, giving me a peck on the cheek, and then whispers, “Glad you’re here.”

“Thanks…well, I’m sure you have a lot to do,” I say as some guests approach. I walk over to a card table where the makeshift bar is set up and pour myself a juice. Harper comes running over to me. She is wearing the outfit I gave her last week, the tights, skirt, and fuzzy pink sweater. She introduces me to her friend from school and the two of them hold hands and disappear down the hallway.

I sit down on the sofa and look around. There is a large manila envelope stuffed with official-looking papers on the coffee table and several large leather-bound photo albums. On the mantel above the fireplace is a modest-looking pewter urn with two candles flanking it, and the same photo of Lorraine and Harper I saw the other night is sitting beside it.

There is something disturbing about an urn. I hate looking at it, although it sure beats an open-casket funeral. I went to one of those once, when my uncle died. We all stood in line to pay our respects and when it was my turn, I noticed that his glasses were slightly askew on his overly rouged face. My aunt reached in the casket to adjust his glasses and I noticed a smudge of makeup came off on her hand. I’ve never understood the need to have an open casket. I know that people want to say good-bye, but it seems like added torture to have that last glance of your loved one in macabre maquillage. When my dad died and the creepy funeral director suggested an open casket, we all agreed that a large photo was as far as we wanted to go.

I remember at his funeral, people would say things like “He’s in a better place” or “He’s at peace.” I hated all of that because if you asked him, he wouldn’t want to be there and neither would they.

Lorraine’s friends start to straggle in. There are two tall, dark-haired women in their twenties who look as if they have been sleeping in a very dark room and someone suddenly switched on all the lights. They keep blinking in the afternoon glare and they are both exceedingly pale. It is about seventy-eight, maybe even eighty degrees, but the taller one is wearing a heavy black winter coat with ratty fur trim and black high-heeled ankle-length boots. She wears heavy black eye makeup and black lace crocheted gloves with the fingers cut out. Her name is Violet. Her friend wears a black wool morning coat over jeans and heavy black boots, a kind of Goth, stylized gloom. When Harper sees them, she grins, and both girls give her a long, warm hug. Heartening rather than depressing.

“Hello, precious,” croons Violet. “Oh, my baby. I love you so much. And I am soooo sorry. Your mother would be so proud of you today. You look totally dope.”

“Dora brought me this. It’s for the party.”

“You look amazing,” echoes the friend, who has dragonfly-blue streaks in her hair and some kind of a tattoo on her wrist, which I can’t quite make out. Then they both embrace Bea. These girls could have been close friends of Edgar Allan Poe but somehow, standing next to the regal Bea, it’s more like a twisted Thornton Wilder scene. The three of them make a surprisingly good match. Granted, Lorraine definitely had a messed-up life, but she did have some good friends who seemed to adore her.

I flip through the photo album in front of me. Lorraine as a toddler in a swimsuit and flippers, Lorraine and Fred whirring around on an amusement park ride, Lorraine with a wide “happy childhood” smile standing bowlegged on a beach in a floppy hat and sunglasses. When was it, I wondered, that she fell into the abyss? No photos of Lorraine with a man, or for that matter, a baby.

More people now pile into the stifling living room. There is a tall, grizzled man with limp shoulder-length hair named Ish and a few older, dressed-up couples in their sixties and seventies who introduce themselves as Bea’s church friends. Most look slightly ill at ease and are carrying small bouquets of flowers or bottles of wine. Hanging around the doorway are a few gaunt, unshaven guys in their twenties who look wasted. Bea greets each guest with a warm, ardent smile as if they are old family friends. The emotional toll on her is clearly apparent, but she is still hospitable.

“Nice of you to come, dearie.”

“Have you seen her album?”

“Please sit down, sugar.”

The pastor from Bea’s church is also here. I see him take her arm and lead her to the corner of the room, where they sit across from each other in straight-back chairs. Bea bends her head and lowers her eyes as the man takes both her hands in his and talks softly to her as if she were a child. The shadows are lengthening outside the window as I overhear him saying that it wasn’t Bea’s fault, there was nothing she could have done that would have made a difference. “What you have to understand, my dear, is that everything you did was done out of love and God knows that.” Bea shakes her head and starts to sob.

Harper tugs on my arm. “There’s some big plates of sandwiches. Do you want one? We have lots of food.”

“You are a wonderful hostess, Harper. But I’ll help myself.”

I go into the kitchen where I find a few people talking quietly in the corner and Fred sipping Scotch. His eyes are weary and he’s looking flushed but more relaxed.

“We’re going to the beach now for the ceremony,” he tells me, and I’m thinking, What ceremony? I guess they’re going to have a memorial service after all…that’s nice. He walks out and as I’m getting something to eat I hear the woman in the corner whisper, “It’s for the best. It was no good for the child. No one will tell Bea that to her face, but everyone’s thinking it…”

Fred makes the announcement in the living room and then goes up to the mantel, lifts the lid to the urn, and removes a small plastic bag, the contents of which look suspiciously like kitty litter. People start piling in their cars and Harper excitedly asks Bea, “Can I ride with the big girls?” One of the Goth twins says, “Cool, Harper. Come with us.”

“Dora, just wait. You’ll come with Bea and me,” says Fred.

The young men grab their surfboards and throw them into their cars. A few of them have long boards with eucalyptus tied to them, and in most cases, the boards stick out the window like a dog catching the breeze. They tie a red flag on the ends and take off. We weave our way down the hill, cross Pacific Coast Highway, and drive up the coast a bit until we hit a somewhat deserted beach.

By the time we get there, most of the guests have already arrived and are walking on the sand to the water’s edge. The girls carry bunches of carnations and sage and someone holds a large conch shell.

The guys then pull wet suits and rash guards out of their duffels and strip down to their boxers. No one is talking. Ish seems to be leading the proceedings. He suits up and swings the backpack with the bag over his shoulder. They all slide into the ocean after him, carrying the eucalyptus and carnations.

It’s one of those perfect California sunsets—the wind has stopped, the sky is slashed with oranges, purples, and reds, it could be a poster from
Endless Summer
. They paddle out into the chilly Pacific in formation until they are well beyond the surf. At this point, like synchronized swimmers in the Olympics, they form an almost perfect circle, boards pointed in like a giant pinwheel. One of the girls burns sage on the beach, telling us it’s an ancient Chumash Indian custom—cleanses the soul and banishes sorrow.

Ish straddles his board, says something inaudible, opens the bag, and dramatically sweeps the ashes out to sea. Someone blows the conch shell and starts to beat on the drum. Everyone on shore is quietly weeping. I look over at Fred, stoic, eyes cast down. He has his arms around Bea, who is sobbing. Harper is standing next to Bea with a bewildered look on her face.

After the surfers return, the guests take turns giving impromptu tributes to Lorraine. I learn that most of these girls are fairly new friends and that Lorraine bounced around a lot, that she came to California six years ago and got a job working as a bartender at a local restaurant. She apparently had a boyfriend named Bobby D, who doesn’t seem to be here. Now Ish stands up, puts on his black sunglasses, and speaks.

“Lorraine, honey. I didn’t really know you but I told Bobby D that I would stand in for him today on account of he’s been pretty fucked up since you, you know, gave it up. I’m not sure if you can hear me up there, but if you can, I have a few things to say…”

I’m thinking to myself, I can’t even imagine…. I look over at Fred and he’s shaking his head in disbelief.

Ish goes on, “We know you are going to a better place and that things got pretty messed up for you toward the end. But honey, we love you. Just remember that. And we aren’t gonna ever forget you. And you left a beautiful baby doll here on earth and I know Bobby D is thinking about you right now and will always love you. Amen.”

The sounds of the highway rise and fall with the eternal rolling of the waves and I can hear the roar of a far-off jet somewhere in the clouds.

Bea goes next. She takes out a folded piece of lined notebook paper and clears her throat. Her voice is shaky but audible. Violet puts her arms around her as she reads and Harper, surprising me, edges up beside me and takes my hand. Her hand is so small and soft and smooth. And she is holding on so tight. I kiss the top of her head as Bea starts to read, “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word: for mine eyes have seen thy salvation which thou hast prepared before the face of all people. For all flesh is as grass and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass witherist and the flower thereof falleth away.”
^*

Fred is the last speaker. He recites from memory, of course, and his voice is clear and strong and mesmerizing. He starts out by saying, “This is called ‘Love Song’ by William Carlos Williams.

“Sweep the house clean,

hang fresh curtains

in the windows

put on a new dress

and come with me!

The elm is scattering

its little loaves

of sweet smells

from a white sky!

Who shall hear of us

in the time to come?

Let him say there was

a burst of fragrance

from black branches.”