We finished eating about seven forty-five and were about to start clearing the dishes when my mother got up from the table and went over to where Jennie was sitting. Without a word, she lifted Jennie out of her booster seat and onto the floor, took her hand and started to lead her down the hall in the direction of the back door.
“Where are you going, Mom?” I asked.
“Outside,” she replied. “I want to show Jennie something.”
“It’s gonna be dark in a few minutes,” I pointed out. “Can’t it wait until morning?”
“No, it can’t,” she replied matter-of-factly.
Curious as to what was going on, I left my father sitting at the table drinking the last of his coffee and followed the two of them. I came outside just in time to see my mother kneel down beside Jennie.
“Look up at the sky, sweetheart,” I heard her say. “Do you see that star there, just over the trees? The really bright one?”
“Uh-huh,” Jennie replied quietly, looking first at the star, then at her grandmother, then back at the star.
“Well,” my mother continued, “now that Mommy’s in heaven, that star is Mommy’s star. And do you know what that means?”
Jennie shook her head somberly, still looking up at the star.
“It means that whenever you want to talk to her, all you have to do is find that star, and she’ll be right there listening to you. Any time you want.”
Jennie turned away from the star and looked intently at my mother. “Will she be able to talk to me?”
“No, sweetheart. She won’t be able to talk to you. But she will be able to hear everything you say to her.’’
Jennie turned back to the star and stared at it thoughtfully for several moments. “I love you, Mommy,” she said softly.
Oh, Jesus
, I thought.
I can’t handle this. Not tonight. I just can’t
.
But before I could go back inside, Jennie turned away from the star towards me, and in spite of the fading light, saw my face and realized I was about to cry.
“What’s the matter, Daddy? Don’t you want to talk to Mommy?”
A deep breath and another silent prayer for strength. “Nothing’s the matter, sweetheart. I just got a little sad when I saw Mommy’s star.”
A second of silence as I wondered what to say next. “Why don’t you talk to Mommy with Grandma for a few minutes, and then I’ll see you inside when you’re done?”
Jennie nodded and looked again at the star just over the tops of the trees. And for the next four or five minutes she and my mother had a conversation with Peg while I stood just inside the back door, trying to pull myself together and wondering what the two of them were saying.
At first I marveled at my mother’s ability to listen to her granddaughter talk to a tiny point of light in the early evening sky. Then I found myself wondering if maybe Peg could hear the two of them. And then I wondered if maybe I were losing my mind.
I got out of bed early Monday morning, August 18th, knowing I had a lot to do and worried about not having enough time. For starters, I had to complete the last of my telephone calls to friends and co-workers. I had stopped making calls shortly before dinner Sunday night and hadn’t been able to summon the strength to continue making them after dinner. I estimated I had at least twenty-five calls still remaining. I could have asked someone else to make them—several people had volunteered the day before on hearing the news—but I felt this was something I had to do, something that couldn’t be delegated to someone else.
I also had to call the funeral home to make certain the hospital had released Peg’s body. If not, I had to find out why and deal with the problem. I had to go home and pick out a dress and some jewelry for Peg to wear at the wake, and I had to bring everything to the funeral home and then select a casket. I had to ask a few people to let everyone know the first viewing was tonight and provide information regarding time, location, directions and so forth. And last, I needed to call the florist and then Father Bob about the funeral service to be held at Saint John’s Episcopal Church in Huntington on Wednesday.
At five after seven I found the next name in Peg’s address book. I picked up the receiver and started to dial. The Monday morning calls were different from the Sunday afternoon calls. Sunday afternoon, I had the distinct impression again and again that my call had shattered an otherwise peaceful and relaxing summer weekend. People had answered their telephones expecting the call to be simply another little event on their path to Sunday dinner, bed and the beginning of a new work week. But the people who answered their telephones on Monday morning shortly after seven o’clock—some obviously awakened by my call, some awake but not yet functioning, others moments away from leaving the house for work—answered warily, seemingly already prepared for bad news.
Throughout the morning my folks took turns watching the kids and calling their friends whenever the line was free. The emotional strain on the two of them was evident in the way they looked, moved and talked. Neither of them had slept well, and dark circles under their tear-reddened eyes dominated their faces. My mother still managed to move around the house with purpose, albeit a little more slowly than usual, but my father seemed to find the task of moving himself from point A to point B almost more than he could handle.
By shortly after one o’clock everything was done, and my folks and I and the children sat down for lunch. Conversation between my parents and me was sporadic at best and centered on the details of the day—what we had each done during the morning and what we predicted lay ahead that night—rather than on the larger issues facing us, which was definitely fortunate and perhaps intentional.
“What are you going to do this afternoon?” my mother asked as she started to clear the dishes from the table.
“Believe it or not, I was thinking I might lie down for a while,” I replied, swallowing the last bite of my tuna sandwich. “This morning really took a toll on me, I guess.”
“I know it’s taken a toll on me,” she answered. “And on your father,” she added while she watched him slowly sip his coffee. “A few hours of rest would probably do us all good.”
Ten minutes later, the lunch dishes stacked in the sink, John in his crib, Jennie with my folks, I stretched out on the guest room bed. I lay on my back, hands clasped on my chest, eyes closed, for fifteen minutes before accepting the fact I couldn’t will myself to sleep. With a sigh, I rolled over onto my side, wondering what I should do.
I should sleep
, I thought.
Or maybe I should call the funeral home and make sure everything’s okay.
Another moment of consideration and the decision was made. I rolled off the bed, put on my sneakers and went into the library. I quickly scanned a yellow pad still on the desk and found the number for the Tarasan-Virag Funeral Home and the name of the director I had met earlier that morning. I dialed the number.
“Good afternoon,” a woman answered quietly. “Tarasan-Virag Funeral Home.”
“Good afternoon. My name is John Herbert. I’m calling for Paul Virag.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but Mr. Virag isn’t here at the moment. Could someone else help you perhaps?”
“I don’t know. I’m calling about my wife, Peggy Herbert. I dropped off her things this morning. Is there someone I can talk to about her?”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Herbert. Just one minute.”
In seconds, a man’s voice came on the line. “Mr. Herbert? This is Jerry Crandall. How can I help you?”
“Well…I was calling to see if you had finished getting my wife ready for tonight.”
“We’re just about finished, Mr. Herbert. With the dress and the jewelry you dropped off this morning, I think your wife is going to look lovely.”
“That’s good to hear. I appreciate your efforts.”
“Please. That’s what we’re here for.”
I hesitated, not knowing how to broach the next topic, and Crandall assumed the call was over.
“Mr. Herbert, if there’s anything else we can do for you tonight during the viewing, please let me know. I’ll be on duty when you arrive.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, there is one more thing I’d like to ask of you.”
“Of course, Mr. Herbert. What is it?”
“I’d…like to come over now…or whenever you’re finished getting my wife ready…to look at her. To make certain she looks the way she should. The way she did. If you know what I mean.”
I could feel Crandall pulling away from me before he said a word. “Really, Mr. Herbert, that isn’t necessary. We do this all the time. I’m quite certain you’ll be very pleased with the result.”
“I’m sure I will be,” I replied, “but I’d still like to see my wife before tonight to make certain she looks like the woman everybody knew. That’s not a problem, is it?”
“No, of course not, Mr. Herbert. It’s just that this usually isn’t done, and as I said, it’s not necessary. Really it isn’t.”
“I understand that, Mr. Crandall. But it’s very important to me. The lady your people are working on is my wife.”
I imagined him rolling his eyes and looking up at the ceiling. “Well, if you think you’re going to want to change anything, you’ll have to get here before the makeup artist and hairdresser leave. I can’t ask them to make a second trip.”
“I can be to you in twenty-five minutes,” I said. “Is that soon enough?”
“That’ll be fine, Mr. Herbert,” Crandall replied with obvious reluctance. “Come to the front door and ring the bell. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Before I could thank him, he hung up.
A minute later, after leaving a quickly written note to my folks on the kitchen table, I slipped out the back door and drove to the funeral home to inspect the remains of my wife.
Twenty-seven minutes later I turned into the empty parking lot of the Tarasan-Virag Funeral Home and pulled into a slot to the right of a columned portico over the front entrance. Crandall must have been watching the lot, because he opened one of the double doors for me before I was halfway up the front steps.
“Mr. Herbert?”
“That’s right.”
“Jerry Crandall.”
We shook hands just inside the door, and I could tell he was trying to judge my state of mind before he let me come too far into the building.
“I really appreciate this,” I said, hoping I sounded calm and reassuring.
He closed the door behind me without answering and turned the deadbolt. He then gave the door a single pull to make certain it was locked, looked at me once more and started to walk down a hall to the right of where we were standing. “Come this way, please. We just finished preparing Mrs. Herbert, but both the makeup artist and the hairdresser are still here if there’s anything that’s not to your liking.”
We walked side by side, our footsteps silenced by the deep pile carpet. Midway down the hall we turned to the left through a set of open double doors and went down two steps into an enormous chapel. At first I thought the room had a low ceiling, but I quickly realized the ceiling was at least ten feet high and only appeared low because of the size of the room. At least one hundred fifty padded folding chairs were arranged in perfectly straight row after perfectly straight row across the expanse of carpet. Around the perimeter of the room were a couple dozen high-backed upholstered armchairs as well as several large sofas. Only a few of the room’s many wall sconces were lit, but the light was more than enough to illuminate the multiple shades of gold, bronze and cream in the room’s carpet and wallpaper.
Peg’s casket, its lacquered mahogany reflecting the light from the wall sconces, was centered against the wall opposite the double doors. A middle-aged, overweight woman and a slim man at least ten years her junior stood perfectly still at the head of the casket, waiting for the next few minutes to unfold.
Crandall and I walked down the side of the room towards the casket, Crandall nervously looking first at me, then at the man and woman, then back at me. When we got to within about five feet of the casket, he stopped and nervously indicated I should continue forward alone.
I took two steps and stopped. I intentionally avoided looking at Peg’s face. Instead, I looked first at the casket and took in the beauty of the wood and ran my hand over the flawless finish. Then I looked at Peg’s carefully folded hands. I noticed her left hand was on top so that her wedding band was clearly visible, and I nodded approvingly. I looked at her dress, her favorite blue dress, and tried to distinguish between the curves in the material that belonged to the dress and those that belonged to Peg. And then, I looked at her face.
And as I did, I realized that the last two images I would have of her and which I would remember forever were as inaccurate as they could possibly be. In one, only a day old, her face was ashen, her mouth and ears were ringed with blood, and her once thick, lustrous hair was tangled and frizzy. In the other, the one before me now, she looked like a glamorous stranger, a stranger with too much eye shadow and too much mascara, a shade of lipstick too bold and with hair teased and sprayed, something Peg had never done. Neither image was the Peg I had known. And yet, although both were totally false, both were completely real.
I looked at Peg for several moments before finding the will to speak. When I did, I spoke to the man and woman still standing at the head of the casket. “I’d like you to take off some of the eye shadow, if you don’t mind. As I told Mr. Virag, she always wore it, but because her eyes were so blue, she didn’t need very much. And I’d like you to take off most of the mascara too. Again, she didn’t use much. And…I’m sorry, but the hair isn’t her either. It’s…too fancy. Too glitzy. She never teased her hair, and she never used hair spray. Her hair was so thick, she didn’t need to. It should just…kind of hang, in waves, gentle waves, if you know what I mean.”
Neither the man nor the woman responded. They didn’t nod in agreement or even signify they understood what I was saying. Nor did they shake their heads in protest or give any sign that they were angry or insulted. They just looked at Crandall in awkward silence and waited for him to respond. Finally Crandall took a deep breath and, without seeming to exhale, addressed each of my comments.