by Carla Damron
“I understand how it could happen.”
“I don’t want my funeral to be sad,” the woman said. “The world has too much sadness. I’d like it to be a big old party. I want people to toast my departing with champagne.” Mrs. Rollison smiled at them, her milky eyes twinkling.
“No, you can’t adopt her,” Sandy whispered to Adam.
The organ stopped. Muted voices surrounded them as the sanctuary filled with people, mostly well-dressed, well-coiffed, and well-moneyed. Sandy wished she’d worn a more comfortable pair of shoes.
Mrs. Rollison said, “Lena’s mother”—she pronounced it “mothah”—“was my closest friend. I watched Lena grow up. Now I get to watch her bury her husband.” Her smile quivered a little. She shook her head. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t burden you young people with my problems.”
Adam squeezed the woman’s hand.
“Lena’s lucky to have a friend like you,” Sandy said.
“Lena has many friends. But she’s very private, too. She was brought up to believe you must shoulder your burdens on your own. That came from her fathah. He was a troubled man. Lena’s mothah stood by him till the day he died. I think that was hard on Lena and her sister.”
Sandy had more in common with Lena Hastings than she realized. They could start a support group: Dysfunctional-Families-R-Us. Lena came out stronger than Sandy, though. At least, Sandy hoped she had. She didn’t want to think about hidden vodka bottles or stashes of pills tucked into the drawers of Lena’s life.
The organ wailed again. She glanced at her watch: still a half hour before the service started. Then lunch. Then vacuuming.
In every way imaginable, Sandy the addict had an easier gig than sober Sandy.
BECCA SAT BESIDE ELLIOTT in the rear of the funeral car as it glided along Gervais Street. It had been a slow trip from their house, and it felt like every person in every car they passed stared at them inching along. She’d overdone it with the deodorant. Last Saturday she had snuck into the guest bathroom, the one Dad used for shaving and dressing, and opened his Old Spice antiperspirant so she could sniff Dad’s scent: tangy, not too sweet. Yesterday she decided to wear it instead of her Arid Extra Dry. It was stupid to wear a man’s deodorant, but she needed to be able to smell him. Just a few more days.
Hot. She felt scorched from the inside, though nobody else looked the least bit warm. Mom sat by the door, cool as a grape popsicle in her dress. Elliott and Sims weren’t sweating, though Elliott kept clearing his throat like he was about to give a lecture, which she was glad he didn’t give. Even Sims’s wife Connie, who was easily two hundred pounds of lard and cellulite and looked like an Easter egg in her yellow polyester dress, didn’t have a drop of perspiration on her face. So why did Becca feel like she’d been set afire?
A parking spot was reserved by an ornate metal sign that read “funeral.” She could see lots of people lined up to climb the steps to the church: a few of Dad’s golf friends, that lady with the wobbly voice who sang in the choir, and a bunch of men in suits, maybe from Dad’s work. And there at the door, wearing a white flower in his lapel and dark shades like he was going into a club: Mr. Calloway.
Becca started to climb over Mom to escape the suffocating vehicle but the funeral home guy opened the door and helped Mom out first. Reverend Bill met her on the walkway, taking her hand. Sims and Elliott gathered close and listened to something the minister whispered. Connie leaned against the taillight with her fat arms crossed over her fat boobs, probably mad at being left out of the pre-funeral conference, but Becca was glad to be excluded. She eased over to the other side of the car and drew a deep breath of cool autumn air, wishing she could disappear without being noticed. She dreaded the service. And the people coming to the house afterwards. And the days and days that followed now that Dad was dead.
The small cemetery was beyond the wrought iron fence. Dad’s ashes would go in a column structure in the rear, Mom had said. “That way, he’ll always be nearby.” Was Becca supposed to find comfort in that?
She wiped the sweat from under her eyes. When she looked up, she spotted a large black man, with long matted hair, moving between tombstones—Joe. He approached the fence, wielding a rake with the prongs overhead, his head bent down. What was he going to do? He’d never been dangerous, according to Dad, but the way he was holding that rake—she glanced at her brothers who were greeting the McAllister family. Mom was still talking to Reverend Bill.
Joe’s giant hand gripped the gate as he looked right at Becca. His expression morphed, the crazy-eyed look he wore falling like a mask. His black eyes blinked, his gaze not leaving her. Becca swallowed. He gave her an odd three-fingered wave. Not knowing how to respond, she waved back. Joe lowered his head, as if bowing, then backed away from the gate.
Another figure stood under the live oak that shaded the cemetery, looking at an old tombstone. He was thin, his hands buried in the pockets of his long wool coat, the collar pulled up around his ears. His red hair had been pulled into a ponytail and round wire-rim glasses perched on his nose. He turned, his gaze fixing on Becca and her family. Royce.
What did he want? Had Mom been seeing him? No. Not since she came back home. Becca was sure, wasn’t she?
Royce stepped closer and motioned to her. How dare he be here? Becca glanced at her Mom, who was still with Reverend Bill. Becca slid through the gate and stepped in front of him.
“Hi, Becca,” he said with a little smile. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Go away,” she answered.
He cocked his head, scrutinizing her. “You’re angry.”
“You’re still here.”
He grinned again, flashing his crooked teeth. He swept a hand toward the cemetery. “I was looking at the old gravestones here. Some of the carvings are amazing. Over a hundred years old, but still so vivid. So alive.” He accented “alive” with a lift of his shoulders.
“Alive? Seriously? Why are you here?”
“I’ve been by this church a thousand times and I never once stopped to look at the cemetery,” he said, like she was supposed to give a damn about what he thought.
She checked over her shoulder. Mom was still conferring with the reverend and must not have seen him. Her brothers had moved to the edge of the sidewalk.
“How’s Lena doing?” Royce lowered his voice like they were sharing a secret.
“She’s none of your business,” she snarled.
He blinked as though stunned by her words. “Again the anger. Not becoming on you, Becca.”
She wanted to kick him in the nuts. To pull that frazzled ponytail from his head.
“Becca?” Elliott waved her to him.
“I have to get back.”
He nodded, his eyes softening. “I’m sorry about your dad, Becca.”
She looked at the splash of orange freckles across his nose, at the wrinkles pleating his forehead. How had Mom ever loved this man?
Royce laid a hand on her shoulder. “Take care.” She jerked away as though scalded and hurried back to her family.
“Who was that?” Elliott asked.
“Nobody.” That word seemed perfect. She felt momentary relief to see Royce walking away. Had Mom seen him?
“Ready to go inside?” Sims asked, guiding them toward the sanctuary.
Ten minutes later, Becca sat between her brothers: Sims in his dark blue suit, with Connie on the other side, her arm hooked through his as if he needed an anchor. Elliott was in black, with a narrow tie, and scuffed black Reeboks because he’d forgotten to bring dress shoes.
Her mom was beside him, wearing the pearls Dad gave her on their wedding day. Lena liked to tell Becca that she would get those pearls one day, but she couldn’t imagine it. Pearls belonged on people who weren’t mutants. That’s what Becca was. An alien on earth, because here she was, at her father’s funeral, and she couldn’t cry. She knew she should, that the loss of a parent was supposed to be so devastating that she should be sobbing on a brother’s shoulder, bu
t the tears weren’t there. Dad deserved a daughter who would cry over him.
Becca glanced over at Elliott. His eyes were wet, and he kept rubbing his nose with a handkerchief. He must have felt her gaze because he reached over and squeezed her shoulder. He was always doing stuff like that, and sometimes she wished he lived here instead of in New York. Sims was a different kind of brother. Always asking about her grades and complaining about what she wore. He was helpful when she needed math tutoring but otherwise he was the third parent she had never asked for.
At the pulpit, Reverend Bill was talking about Dad in a deep, gentle voice, as if he were talking to them and not a church overflowing with people. He probably thought she should be crying. There were a lot of people who were.
“When I think about Mitch Hastings—the man whose life we are celebrating today—one word comes to mind. That word is family.”
Beside her, Sims lowered his head. Elliott blew his nose again. Becca couldn’t see her mom, but Sims was handing her a tissue.
“He was a quiet man, not one to talk of his own accomplishments. His tireless work on the Homelessness Task force. His dedication to this church. But above all, he valued his family. Ask him about his kids, and he’d talk your ear off. He’d tell you that Sims was a successful banker with a beautiful family. He’d talk about Elliott, the musician wowing audiences in New York City. And he’d describe Becca, his beautiful youngest, almost in high school already. Mitch’s pride in his kids could fill this church.”
She used to love it when Dad came to her soccer games. They ate ice cream after, and at night, sometimes she’d climb on his lap while he watched TV. But that all changed when she was twelve. She remembered the exact moment: Kayla and Ree Ann came over to spend the night, and they were in the den discussing the Twilight book series, and Dad walked right in, sat down, and joined their conversation. He told the lamest jokes and asked ridiculous questions about the book: “Why does this Bella like the vampire?” and Kayla and Ree Ann rolled their eyes like he was the biggest geek in middle school, trying to fit in where he didn’t. Dad, who used to be a spot of sunshine at the end of her day, became an embarrassment.
It had hurt his feelings; she saw it in his eyes. Despite that, he had never given up—every morning came the forehead kiss goodbye. Every night, the “Sleep tight, Kitten,” as if she was seven years old. He never gave up on her, and now there was a giant hole where he should be. No matter how hard she tried to walk around it, she kept finding herself at its edge.
“You okay, Bec?” Elliott whispered in her ear. His breath felt warm on her neck, and she was glad. She needed to feel someone alive close by.
“Yeah.” Wasn’t she? She could see her hands shaking. When had that started?
“This won’t be much longer. Be glad we’re Episcopalians. Baptist funerals can take days.”
Days? She tried to imagine having to spend the night in the sanctuary, then realized Elliott was joking. She found herself smiling, but it occurred to her that she shouldn’t be, so she covered her mouth. Once her hand was there, she bit down on the tender meat of her palm. The pain felt right.
“Lena,” the minister was saying, “Last year you overcame something no one should have to. Mitch stayed by your side and wished he could share your pain. To be loved so completely is a rare and amazing thing.”
Sims nodded. Elliott let out a sigh. Becca bit harder on her hand.
“St. Paul tells us that love never dies. I’m a believer in heaven. I guess that comes with the job.” A few mourners chuckled at this.
“. . . and Mitch is there. But he is also here, among us. He is here in Sims’s voice. In Becca’s beautiful smile.”
A thousand eyes fixed on her and she gasped. She jerked her hand from her mouth and stared at the priest. He must have sensed her discomfort because he winked and said, “It’s a good thing, Becca. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
A small hand against her back. Mom, reaching behind Elliott. For the first time, Becca looked at her. Her expression was so strange. No tears. Narrowed eyes. Lips flattened against each other. Like every fraction of an inch of her had hardened into cement. Mom must feel like she did, except the hole that Dad left was much larger for her, and it scared Becca to think that it might swallow Mom right up.
The service ended with “A Mighty Fortress is Our God,” Dad’s favorite hymn. And then they carried the urn down the steps: Mr. Calloway, Dr. Burnside, and four of Dad’s golf friends walking beside it. Her dad was in that small shiny box. They were taking him away. They were taking him away and she would never, ever talk to him or feel his kiss on her forehead or hear him say “Night Kitten.”
Before she knew it, she opened her mouth and screamed.
CHAPTER 12
After dropping off Mr. Jamison’s papers with the court clerk, Tonya listened to her motivational Dr. Allaway CD and tried not to think about Mr. Hastings’s funeral. She skipped over “I am Warrior” to part two: “Responsibility Ain’t for Sissies.”
“Who is in charge of your life?” Dr. Allaway asked. “Let’s start with your job. Is your boss in charge? The one who maybe doesn’t appreciate you? Is he in control of your work life?”
Tonya hit “pause.” Dr. Allaway’s words cut deep. Tonya was not appreciated by her boss, even though she’d been trying harder. Even though she got through her assignments and left an empty in-box at the end of the day, Mr. Jamison hadn’t noticed. Ruth might have, but she looked for fault in other people, failing to notice when Tonya did something good. Tonya could rescue orphans from a burning building, and Ruth would complain about her getting ashes on the carpet.
Tonya hit play. “It’s easy to blame other people when your life isn’t what you want it to be. But the blame game accomplishes nothing. Whose life is it, anyway? Yours. You are the captain of your ship. Nobody else. You.”
“I am the captain of my ship,” she repeated.
“The captain sets the course,” said Dr. Allaway. “The captain determines the journey.”
“I am the captain of my ship.” The words were a lie. She had not set the course for her life. Her parents had decided everything before she got married, then John took control because damned if she didn’t hand him the reins. John chose where they would live, which cars to buy. He even selected the jobs she applied for and made her choose the law firm because the pay, such as it was, was better than what she’d been offered at First Citizen’s Bank.
“If you give up control of your destiny,” Dr. Allaway said, “you don’t get to criticize others when things go wrong.”
She hit the “stop” button, very annoyed with Dr. Allaway. Everything seemed so easy for him. She had read on the CD that he lived in New York. He probably had a big townhouse by Central Park. Maybe he drove a Mercedes C class and flew to Paris to shop. Dr. Allaway was the captain of his ship and it was a zillion foot yacht.
As she parked the rental car in front of the office, she spotted Marion by the cigarette urn near the front door, a Salem Long balanced between two garnet-red nails. “FYI,” she said as Tonya approached, “Ruthless is on the warpath.”
Fighting a knot of anxiety, Tonya eyed the door. Was there something else she was supposed to do?
“Everything has to be drama with that bitch.” Marion puffed out smoke with the “b” in bitch.
“What’s she mad about?” Tonya asked, waving away the smoke.
“A paralegal called in sick and Ruth has a huge assignment due today. Heaven forbid you get the flu when Ruth needs something.” Marion stepped closer. “Bruise is fading some.”
Tonya touched her nose without flinching, another sign of healing. A pea-sized bump above her right nostril remained. “Guess I’d better go see if I can help.”
“She’s in a meeting with Jamison and a new client. They’ll be at least an hour.”
Good. Tonya wasn’t in the mood for a run-in with Ruthless. She leaned back against the door. The sky was blue and crisp, a perfect V of Canadian geese a
rcing high above. Was the funeral over now? Were they at the graveside, lowering Mr. Hastings into the ground? Was Mrs. Hastings imagining her life without a husband?
“Guess what!” Marion said. “Dan’s invited me to Myrtle Beach for the weekend. He’s got a time-share.”
“Are you going?” Tonya tried to feign interest.
“Damn right I’m going.” Marion flicked ashes off her cigarette. They missed the urn and scattered at her feet.
Marion loved to talk about her latest fling: Dan-the-Man. Which was a lot better than Chuck, who in the waning days of their courtship had morphed into “Upchuck.” And who could forget the demise of “My Big Bobcat” to “Bonehead Bob.” Marion went through men like Tonya went through pantyhose.
“I hope the condo is beachfront. I’m gonna need a new bathing suit though.”
“Are you nuts? It’s November.”
“Don’t need it for the ocean. Need it for the hot tub.” Marion’s mouth curled into a lascivious grin.
Tonya didn’t need the mental image of bikini-clad Marion—who was easily a size twenty—cuddled up to her balding insurance salesman, though she felt a pang of envy. She hadn’t been to the beach in five years. She longed to lie in the sand, listen to the roar of the surf, and let the sun pour over her like honey. Byron would love it, she was sure, though he’d never seen the ocean. The boy was a South Carolinian, and he’d never even seen the ocean.
“I think Dan may be a good dancer. Hope he knows how to shag,” Marion went on. “Is John?”
“Is John what?”
“A good dancer. Hello. Earth to Tonya.”
“Yeah, pretty good. We never shagged though.” Tonya wasn’t about to admit she didn’t know how to shag because if she did, Marion would demonstrate shagging—South Carolina’s “state dance”—right there in front of the law firm.
“Think I can leave a little early on Friday?” Marion asked. “Mr. Jamison’s in court and Ruthless is leaving town at three.”
