Authors: Anne Tyler,Monica Mcinerney
An usher led the family up the aisle: Serena’s daughter, Linda, fat and freckled, and Linda’s bearded husband and two little boys in grownup suits, their expressions self-consciously solemn. Behind them came a fair-haired man, most likely the brother, and various other people, severely, somberly dressed. Several had Max’s wide face, which gave Maggie a start. She seemed to have drifted away from the reason for this ceremony, and now all at once she remembered: Max Gill had actually gone and died. The striking thing about death, she thought, was its eventfulness. It made you see you were leading a real life. Real life at last! you could say. Was that why she read the obituaries each morning, hunting familiar names? Was that why she carried on those hushed, awed conversations with the other workers when one of the nursing home patients was carted away in a hearse?
The family settled in the frontmost pew. Linda glanced back at Serena, but Serena was too busy arguing with the Barley twins to notice. Then the piano fell silent, and a door near the altar opened and a lean, bald-headed minister appeared in a long black robe. He crossed behind the pulpit. He seated himself in a dark wooden armchair and arranged the skirt of his robe fastidiously over his trousers.
“That’s not Reverend Connors, is it?” Ira whispered.
“Reverend Connors is
dead
,” Maggie told him.
She was louder than she’d meant to be. The row of blond heads in front of her swiveled.
Now the piano trudged off on “True Love.” Evidently Sissy was filling in for the chorus. Serena was giving the Barley twins a pointed, accusing glare, but they faced stubbornly forward and pretended not to notice.
Maggie remembered Grace Kelly and Bing Crosby singing “True Love” in a movie. They’d been perched on a yacht or a sailboat or something. Both of them were dead too, come to think of it.
If the minister found the music surprising, he gave no sign. He waited till the last note had faded and then he stood and said, “Turning now to the Holy Word …” His voice was high-pitched and stringy. Maggie wished he were Reverend Connors. Reverend Connors had shaken the rafters. And she didn’t think he’d read any Holy Word at Serena’s wedding, at least not that she could recollect.
This man read a psalm, something about a lovely dwelling place, which came as a relief to Maggie because in her experience, most of the Book of Psalms tended to go on in a sort of paranoid way about enemies and evil plots. She pictured Max reclining in a lovely dwelling place with Grace Kelly and Bing Crosby, his crew cut glinting against the sunlit sails. He would be telling them one of his jokes. He could tell jokes for hours, one after the other. Serena used to say, “All right already, Gill, enough.” They’d often called each other by their last names—Max using Serena’s maiden name even after they were married. “Watch it there, Palermo.” Maggie could hear him now. It had made the two of them look more amiable than other married couples. They’d seemed like easygoing buddies, unaware of that dark, helpless, angry,
confined feeling that Maggie’s own marriage descended to from time to time.
In fact, if Serena believed that marriage was not a Doris Day movie, she had certainly never proved it in public, for her grownup life had looked from outside like the cheeriest of domestic comedies: Serena ironic and indulgent and Max the merry good-time guy. They had appeared to remain focused exclusively upon each other even after becoming parents; Linda had seemed more or less extraneous. Maggie envied that. So what if Max was a bit of a failure in the outside world? “If I just didn’t feel I had to
carry
him; always be the one to carry the household,” Serena had confided once. But then she had turned breezy and waved a hand, clanging her bangle bracelets. “Oh, well! But he’s my sweetie, right?” she’d said, and Maggie had agreed. He was as sweet as they came.
(And she remembered, if Serena didn’t, how she and Serena had spent the summer after fifth grade spying on the gracious Guilford home of the man who was Serena’s father, and how they had cunningly shadowed his teenaged sons and his ladylike wife. “I could bring that woman’s world crashing around her ears,” Serena had said. “I could knock on her door and she would go, ‘Why, hello, dear, whose little girl are you?’ and I could tell her.” But she had said this while hidden behind one of the two complacent stone lions that guarded the front walk, and she had made no move to show herself. And then she had whispered, “I will
never
be like her, I tell you.” A stranger would think she meant the wife, but Maggie knew better: She meant her mother. “Mrs.” Palermo—love’s victim. A woman whose every trait—even the tilted, off-center way she carried her waterfall of black curls—hinted at permanent injuries.)
The minister seated himself, orchestrating his robe.
Sissy Parton weighed in with a few ominous notes. She looked toward the congregation and Durwood said, “Me?” right out loud. The blond heads swiveled again. Durwood rose and headed up the aisle. Apparently you were expected to remember on your own when your song was due. Never mind that you had to cast your thoughts back twenty-nine years.
Durwood struck a pose beside the piano, resting one arm on the lid. He nodded at Sissy. Then he started off in a throbbing bass: “Hold me close. Hold me tight …”
A lot of parents had forbidden that song in their houses. All this wanting and needing really didn’t sound very nice, they had said. So Maggie and her classmates had had to go to Serena’s, or to Oriole Hi Fidelity, where you could still, in those days, pile into a listening booth and play records all afternoon without making a purchase.
And now she recalled why she hadn’t liked Durwood; his operatic tremolo brought it all back. Once upon a time he’d been considered quite a catch, with his wavy dark hair and his deep-brown eyes and that habit he had of beseechingly crinkling his brow. He’d sung “Believe Me if All Those Endearing Young Charms” in the high school auditorium on every conceivable occasion, always the same song, the same theatrical gestures, the same fifties crooner style, where the voice breaks with feeling. Sometimes Durwood’s voice broke so extremely that the first syllable of a line was silent, and even on the second syllable he kicked in a touch late, while the plump, bespectacled music teacher gazed up at him mistily from her piano. “Dreamboat,” his entry in the yearbook had read. “Man I’d Most Like to Be Shipwrecked With,” he’d been voted in the school paper. He’d asked Maggie for a date and Maggie had said no and her girlfriends had told her she was crazy. “You turned down Durwood? Durwood Clegg?”
“He’s too soft,” she’d said, and they had repeated the word and passed it among themselves for consideration. “Soft,” they’d murmured tentatively.
He was too pliant, she meant; too supplicating. She failed to see the appeal. For if Serena had made her resolutions about who not to be, why, so had Maggie; and in order not to be her mother, she planned to avoid any man remotely like her father—the person she loved best in the world. No one mild and clumsy for Maggie, thank you; no one bumbling and well-meaning and sentimental, who would force her to play the heavy. You’d never find
her
sitting icily erect while her husband, flushed with merriment, sang nonsense songs at the dinner table.
So Maggie had refused Durwood Clegg and had watched with no regrets as he went on to date Lu Beth Parsons instead. She could see Lu Beth as clear as day this very minute, clearer than Peg, whom he’d ended up marrying. She could see Durwood’s khaki trousers with the Ivy League buckle in back buckled up (“attached,” that signified; “going steady”) and his button-down shirt and natty brown loafers decorated with bobbing leather acorns. But of course this morning he was wearing a suit—baggy and unfashionable, inexpensive, husbandly. For a moment he shifted back and forth like those trick portraits that change expression according to where you’re standing: the old lady-killer Durwood meaningfully lingering on
darling, you’re all that I’m living for
, with his eyebrows quirked, but then the present-day, shabby Durwood searching for the next stanza on Maggie’s shampoo coupon, which he held at arm’s length, with his forehead wrinkled, as he tried to make out the words.
The blond children in front were tittering. They probably found this whole event hilarious. Maggie had an urge to slam the nearest one flat over the head with a hymnbook.
When Durwood finished singing, someone mistakenly clapped—just two sharp explosions—and Durwood nodded in a grimly relieved way and returned to his seat. He settled next to Maggie with a sigh. His face was filmed with sweat and he fanned himself with the coupon. Would it seem mercenary if she asked for it back? Twenty-five cents off, at double-coupon rates …
Jo Ann Dermott stepped up to the pulpit with a small book covered in tooled leather. She had been a gawky girl, but middle age had filled out her corners or something. Now she was willowy and attractive in a fluid, pastel dress and subtle makeup. “At Max’s and Serena’s wedding,” she announced, “I read Kahlil Gibran on marriage. Today, at this sadder occasion, I’ll read what he says about death.”
At the wedding, she had pronounced Gibran with a hard G. Today the G was soft. Maggie had no idea which was correct.
Jo Ann started reading in a level, teacher-like voice, and immediately Maggie was overcome by nervousness. It took her a moment to realize why: She and Ira were next on the program. Just the cadence of
The Prophet
had reminded her.
At the wedding they’d sat on folding chairs behind the altar, and Jo Ann had sat in front of the altar with Reverend Connors. When Jo Ann began reading, Maggie had felt that breathless flutter high in her chest that foretold stage fright. She had taken a deep, trembly breath, and then Ira had unobtrusively set a hand at the small of her back. That had steadied her. When it was time for them to sing, they had begun at the same split second, on exactly the same note, as if they were meant for each other. Or so Maggie had viewed it at the time.
Jo Ann closed her book and returned to her pew. Sissy
flipped pages of sheet music, the puffed flesh swinging from her valentine elbows. She flounced a bit on the bench, and then she played the opening bars of “Love Is a Many Splendored Thing.”
Maybe if Maggie and Ira stayed seated, Sissy would just go on playing. She would cover for them as she had covered for the chorus.
But the piano notes died away and Sissy glanced back toward the congregation. Her hands remained on the keys. Serena turned too and, knowing exactly where to find Maggie, gave her a fond, expectant look in which there was not the slightest suspicion that Maggie would let her down.
Maggie stood up. Ira just sat there. He might be anyone—a total stranger, someone who merely happened to have chosen the same pew.
So Maggie, who had never sung a solo in her life, clutched the seat ahead of her and called out, “ ‘Love!’ ”
A bit squeakily.
The piano sailed into it. The blond children pivoted and stared up into her face.
“ ‘… is a many splendored thing,’ ” she quavered.
She felt like an orphaned, abandoned child, with her back held very straight and her round-toed pumps set resolutely together.
Then there was a stirring at her side, not her right side, where Ira sat, but her left, where Durwood sat. Durwood hastily unfolded himself as if all at once reminded of something. “ ‘It’s the April rose,’ ” he sang, “ ‘that only grows …’ ” This near, his voice had a resonant sound. She thought of sheets of vibrating metal.
“ ‘Love is Nature’s way of giving …’ ” they sang together.
They knew all the words straight through, which Maggie found surprising, because earlier she had forgotten what it was that makes a man a king. “ ‘It’s the golden
crown,’ ” she sang confidently. You had to sort of
step forth
, she decided, and trust that the words would follow. Durwood carried the melody and Maggie went along with it, less quavery now although she could have used a little more volume. It was true that her voice had once been compared to a bell. She had sung in the choir for years, at least till the children came along and things got complicated; and she had taken real joy in rounding out a note just right, like a pearl or a piece of fruit that hung in the air a moment before it fell away. Though age had certainly not helped. Did anyone else hear the thread of a crack running through her high notes? Hard to tell; the congregation faced decorously forward, except for those confounded little blonds.
She thought time had gone into one of its long, slow, taffy-like stretches. She was acutely conscious of each detail of her surroundings. She felt the fabric of Durwood’s sleeve just brushing her arm, and she heard Ira absent-mindedly twanging a rubber band. She saw how accepting and uninterested her audience was, taking it for granted that this song would of course be sung and then some other song after that. “ ‘Then your fingers touched my silent heart,’ ” she sang, and she remembered how she and Serena had giggled over that line when they sang it themselves—oh, long before that fateful Harvest Home Ball—because where else was your heart but in your chest? Weren’t they saying the lover had touched their
chests
? Serena was facing the pulpit but her head had a listening stillness to it. Her tail of hair was gathered into one of those elastic arrangements secured by two red plastic marbles, the kind of thing very young girls wore. Like a very young girl, she had summoned all her high-school friends around her—no one from a later time, no one from the dozen small towns Max had lugged her to during their marriage, for they hadn’t stayed in any of
those places long enough. Maggie decided that that was the saddest thing about this whole event.
The song came to an end. Maggie and Durwood sat down.
Sissy Parton moved directly into “Friendly Persuasion,” but the Barley twins, who used to harmonize as closely as the Lennon Sisters, stayed seated. Serena seemed resigned by now; she didn’t even give them a look. Sissy played just one stanza, and then the minister rose and said, “We are gathered here today to mourn a grievous loss.”
Maggie felt she had turned to liquid. She was so exhausted that her knees were shaking.