Brawler

by Neil Connelly

  There was no music at the mass, no choir and no piano, so we didn’t sing. The somber priest seemed in a rush to get through the service, and he gave a brief sermon about obedience to God and the sanctity of life. As he finished, I realized he was scolding the dead woman for what she’d done, that her final act was a mortal sin in the eyes of the church. According to him, if I understood correctly, there was a good chance even God had turned His back on her. All this made me terribly sad, and I couldn’t help it when the tears came.

  My mom slid an arm around me and patted my back. She misunderstood why I was upset, and I didn’t correct her. Later, when we got home and she went off to work a shift at Perkins, I ripped a sheet of loose-leaf from my seventh-grade binder and wrote out the name of everyone I thought would come to my funeral if I died that day. I figured all my friends would show up, and most of my classmates, even if they were just curious. I also included a couple neighbors, and Mom’s estranged sister in Erie, though I didn’t think she’d drag along my bratty cousins. Fleetingly, I wondered if they’d let my father out for the day on a special pass or something, if he would stand over my grave in prison orange. When I added in a few teachers, my total came to forty-five, and that seemed sort of pathetic. If nobody remembers you after you die, it’s a pretty good bet your life didn’t mean much. Then I decided that some parishioners might show up who didn’t know me, like the trio of crones I’d seen that day, and it occurred to me that my classmates couldn’t really come alone, that they’d have to be driven by a parent or two. With this in mind, I recalculated and decided I might get close to a hundred. This wasn’t a lot, but sitting alone in our apartment picturing that church with just five congregants, a hundred seemed pretty good. Good enough.

  All this was in the back of my mind two days after Than’s death, as Khajee and me rode in a taxi to Than’s midday funeral. Khajee sat next to me in the back seat, wearing a simple black dress. She was calm and collected, and her hands were folded neatly on her lap. Earlier that morning, she’d told me she was going to meditate in the bedroom for a while, but not long after she closed the door, I’d heard some weeping, short and stifled. I felt weird going to a funeral in just normal pants and a buttoned-up shirt, but Khajee told me I shouldn’t go buy a tie or a fancy jacket. “It’s not our way,” she told me.

  In the taxi, she told me that typically Thai funerals aren’t for a week or so after the death, to give the spirits a chance to adjust and prepare. But she thought Than had waited long enough.

  “Long enough for what?” I asked.

  She turned to me and said, “For whatever comes next.”

  The sunlight caught her face and I noticed the damnedest thing. “Your eyes,” I said. “What happened?”

  Khajee looked at me, curious.

  “They were green,” I explained. “How can they be brown now?”

  “They were always brown,” she told me. “Last year on St. Patrick’s Day, I put in green contacts as a gag. This friend of mine, someone special, told me they were cute, so I got used to wearing them. They just became part of my look. Today, it just didn’t feel right.”

  “Sure,” I said. “That makes sense.” There’s so much about people, even ones we’re close to, that we just don’t know.

  When we got to Scherr’s Funeral Emporium, there were only a few cars in the parking lot, but we were very early. I held the door for Khajee and inside, we were greeted by a tall, gray-haired funeral director. She said, “The preparations are nearly complete. If you’ll just follow me.” She led us down a broad carpeted hallway to a room with a few dozen folding chairs, all empty, all aimed at the open coffin up front. A man wearing saffron robes shuffled back and forth between crowded tables on either side of the coffin, and he turned when the director cleared her throat.

  The monk, who had a shaved head and a gentle face, said, “Very good,” and walked toward us. We met in the aisle splitting the rows of chairs, each of which had a white booklet centered on the seat. Facing the monk, Khajee pressed her hands together and bowed slightly, lowering her eyes. She turned to me and said, “This is Eddie, my friend. Eddie, this is Arthur. He’s from the Buddhist center in town.” Unsure of what the etiquette was, I went to bow, but he extended a hand. We shook, and his palm was warm. The funeral director asked Arthur if he needed anything else, and the two of them disappeared back into the hallway. Khajee and I were left alone with Than.

  For a few moments she just stood beside me, frozen, staring at the coffin. I told her, “We could just sit for a bit. We don’t have to —” but I don’t think she heard anything I was saying. She continued up the aisle slowly, like a hesitant bride. It didn’t occur to me to let her go up there alone, so I stayed close without crowding her. She stopped in the open space before the coffin, placed her feet tightly together, pressed her hands palm to palm, and solemnly brought them to her chest. In a fluid motion, she lifted them to her forehead, then bent down, kneeling and then folding so far her face was in the carpet. Slowly she rose till she was standing, then she repeated the whole thing two more times. It looked like some sort of exercise, but I recognized it as a form of prayer. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I watched in silence.

  When she finished, she took a few tentative steps forward. From over her shoulder, I saw Than’s body in the coffin. It was in casual clothes, a dress shirt and simple khakis. I was surprised to see they had stuffed the one pant leg with some material, giving the appearance that his amputation had been made whole somehow. There was even a shoe propped up, though I knew there was no foot inside. Than’s arms were folded at the elbows so his hands could clasp on his chest. Khajee slipped a hand into her dress’s pocket and leaned in, bringing a black plastic comb to her uncle’s wispy hair. She brushed it a few times, making the part distinct, then straightened. The room felt very quiet, and I said, “He looks peaceful.”

  Khajee returned the comb to her pocket, stared for a few heartbeats, and then said, “He’s not in there anymore.” It wasn’t with a judgmental tone — more of a simple observation.

  With that, she moved to the table beside the coffin. A half dozen golden statues sat cross-legged, their bare chests exposed. Some had their fingers contorted in complex signs; some were cloaked in robes like the monk. Before them was a row of glasses filled with colored gems, and a bowl of white flower buds. Khajee lifted one out and nodded at me, so I took one too. When she passed by the coffin and set her bud on her uncle’s chest, I did the same.

  On the left side of the coffin there was a high-backed chair with a red pillow on it, then a second table. This one had a gold-framed portrait of Than, a shot of his face from when he was young. His smile reminded me of Khajee. She selected a single incense stick from a small pile next to the portrait, brought its tip to the flame of a white candle, then jabbed the other end in a pan of sand. The gray smoke curled into the air, and I smelled something sweet, like sandalwood.

  At the very end of the table was a bottle of water and a dish piled high with grapes. This surprised me, and I grew even more curious when Khajee pulled from her pocket an oversize York Peppermint Pattie. She set it down and glanced back at Than, offering a tight smile. Also on the table was a white paper flag, the same size as the one they give out at July 4th parades with a little wooden stick and everything. Only instead of the stars and stripes, the flag was just a white field with an R made in red marker.

  We took two seats at the end of the row of chairs up front, and I spent some time flipping through one of those white booklets. Inside there was a series of prayers that looked like poems. On the cover, I read this:

  The end of collection is dispersion.

  The end of rising is falling.

  The end of meeting is parting.

  The end of birth is death.

  Over the next half hour, about three dozen people entered either alone or in small groups. Some were former brawlers, easy to pick out with their gnarled knuckles, cauliflower ears, and loud voices. Others from the Buddhist community repea
ted the same ritual that Khajee had done in front of the coffin, and I noticed a few leaving items on the table with the food — a small bag of peanuts, a glass jar of jelly beans. Someone, I imagined his secret supplier, left a pack of Newports. Most lifted white flowers from the bowl to Than’s chest, and a few lit incense sticks. Everybody stopped by Khajee and shared their condolences, but for the most part she just nodded and they moved on.

  She did rise when a group of teenagers showed up, friends playing hooky from school I presumed. Not wanting to be rude, I stood too, thinking I might be introduced. Khajee hugged each in the gang of five, and lingered in the arms of the last one, a slight girl with a nose ring who seemed especially upset. This girl’s cheeks were streaked with tears, and she couldn’t seem to stop sobbing. When even the other teens averted their eyes, it came to me that this was the girl with the broken heart from last summer, the one who’d found Khajee’s green eyes cute, the friend who’d quit the school play in solidarity. This was Mouse #2. I decided I should give them all some space.

  I excused myself and went to the bathroom where I was surprised to find Badder at the sink, glancing down as he washed his hands. I was considering slipping out to avoid a confrontation when he shut off the water and looked up, making eye contact in the mirror. I was so shocked by what I saw that I spoke without thinking. “Your face,” I said, staring at his unadorned cheeks in the reflection.

  He turned and shrugged. “Yeah, Sunday makes me do that crap as part of the show. My big sister has to use a damn Sharpie so they don’t sweat off. Total pain to get off.” He slid by me and I heard paper towels being ripped from a dispenser.

  Of course, I’d assumed his tattoos were permanent. Badder swung around in front of me, wiping his hands, and up close one cheek was puffy from our fight. Badder spoke in an unfamiliar, quiet tone. “Sorry for your loss. That Than, he was old school for real.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I just said, “Thanks. I didn’t know him long.”

  “Guys like that, you don’t need to know them long to know them well, right?”

  Smiling, I nodded, and it was clear we understood each other.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ve got to go pay my respects. Need to get home and watch my little brother.” He offered me his hand and I shook it, unsure of how to talk to this very real person in front of me, so far from who I faced in the ring.

  As Badder headed for the door, he paused and looked back. “Those tribal tattoos,” he said, “they’re sacred to the Maori. I feel bad using them as part of an act, you know? One day, I want to get them for real.”

  I was surprised by his confession. “That’d be cool.”

  “Yeah.” He just stood there for a second, like he was deciding something. “The other night,” he finally said, “we did good.”

  “Sure thing,” I told him, still a bit dazed. I felt the urge to ask him something more, but he turned and pushed through the door.

  When I returned to the viewing room, Blalock and Sunday were along the back wall, standing with their arms crossed just inside the door. I joined them, and Blalock brought his face in over my shoulder. “Being in the presence of the dead forces one to consider their own mortality. I’d rather be anywhere but here.”

  I pulled back, and Sunday shook my hand. “Good to see you, Champ.” He said this with a tone I couldn’t quite name.

  Blalock went into a long story about the wake of his ex-wife’s sister. Apparently some little kid recited a sappy poem, and then a nephew decided to sing their favorite song. “The entire affair resembled a third-rate talent show,” Blalock declared, loud enough that some in the back rows turned their faces to us. “What?” Blalock said. “We’re not allowed to talk?”

  Sunday shook his head and tilted into me. “You’re coming to the reception later, yeah? I got everything set up. We need to send old Than off in style, am I right?”

  Khajee had told me Sunday had offered to foot the bill for a gathering after the ceremony, something I interpreted as a power play. I said to Sunday, “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  He stroked the tip of his white beard and said, “Excellent. We need to talk.”

  I was about to ask what we needed to talk about, but then the monk returned, shuffling past us in his robes. Everyone fell silent and got to their feet. Blalock and Sunday exchanged a look and took the opportunity to make a break for it, clearly not interested in the ceremony itself. As they snuck out, Blalock leaned in and whispered, “I’ll gladly provide transport to the reception. We’ll gather in the parking lot after.”

  Standing before the coffin, the monk prostrated himself the same way Khajee had, three times bringing his face to the ground and rising up again. Once he was finished, he stepped to that tiny flag with the red R and dipped it to the white candle. With the flag aflame, he lifted it for all to see. The fire did its work quick, incinerating the paper and leaving just a stick with a charred tip. He nodded and inserted it into the sand with the incense, then positioned himself cross-legged on the red-cushioned chair. The congregation lowered into seats, and I found an empty one nearby. I craned my neck to see Khajee, and the nose ring girl was sitting at her side. This made me glad.

  The monk spoke in a clear voice, loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “For the Buddhist, there is no death. There are no endings. Only transformations. Only changes. We gather now not to mourn Aawut Thanasukolwit, but to help his consciousness leave this form and move on to its new one. We pray to give him positive energy, so his consciousness ascends to a higher level in accordance with the merit he earned during this life.”

  With this, he opened one of those white prayer booklets and began chanting. It wasn’t like singing or humming, but a low guttural sound, something generated from deep in his throat, even his chest. I picked up a prayer booklet and followed along the best I could.

  After the ceremony was complete, a few of the guests wandered back over near Khajee, laid a hand on her shoulder or lifted an open palm as they passed. Most just shuffled into the hall. Khajee embraced the nose ring girl, who then ambled off with the other teens. Khajee saw me waiting and made her way to me, and as we left the funeral home, she leaned heavily onto my arm. Crossing the parking lot, her knees were shaky, and she kept her head down. At Blalock’s SUV, he opened the big back door, and all this time, Khajee held it together. But once she was out of public sight, once the two of us were in the back seat and the tinted windows shut out the rest of the world, she came undone. The tears came in great waves now, and sobs racked her tiny body. In between, she muttered something in Thai, but of course I didn’t understand. All I could do was hold her, rub a hand over her back and try to comfort her. The problem is that everything you try to say at a time like this is all cliché. Sometimes words just make it worse.

  From the front seat, Blalock asked if he could help.

  “She’ll be fine,” I said. “Just give her a few minutes and we’ll head over.”

  “No,” Khajee choked out. “I’m not going. Just take me home.”

  Blalock put his eyes on me through the rearview mirror. “Mr. Sunday won’t be pleased. Not attending might be interpreted as an insult.”

  I said, “I’m not sure his vote matters right now. She’s not in good shape.”

  “Mr. Sunday’s vote always matters. He went through a significant effort clearing out the banquet room and making arrangements. And he was just sharing with me his desire to converse with you, Edward, alone. The time has come to talk about what’s next.”

  By this point, Khajee was spread across the back seat, resting her tiny head on my lap. She’d calmed her crying but her body, curled into a ball, was still quivering. “Fine,” I told Blalock. “I’ll go talk to him. First we’ll swing past Khajee’s and drop her off. Then you and I will go to the reception. I’ll handle Sunday.”

  Blalock shrugged and started backing out of the parking spot. “As you wish,” he said. “Your funeral.” He winced as he tapped the brakes. But I doubt Khajee
heard.

  From what I’d picked up from my nights with Grunt, I knew Sunday owned a piece of a dozen legitimate businesses — a beer distributor in Lemoyne, a pool hall in downtown Harrisburg, a car wash, even a bowling alley. So it’s no surprise I guess that among them was a restaurant, Santalucia’s. It’s a steak house three blocks from the capitol building, where I could imagine senators and lobbyists meeting to make deals over thick Delmonicos.

  When we got there, Blalock led me through the main dining area, weaving among the tables with regular customers and avoiding a busboy carting dishes. At the back wall, we took a flight of stairs up to an open room the size of school gym, big enough to house a small wedding. There was a high ceiling with four dull chandeliers, tall windows along the front wall that could’ve used a good cleaning. A dozen round tables draped with white cloths were arranged across the floor. Some of the people in their fold-out chairs turned when we walked in, but if anybody noticed Khajee was absent, they didn’t say anything.

  Blalock said, “I’m starving,” and headed to the buffet table along one wall. I wasn’t really hungry, but I followed him just for something to do. He loaded his plate with asparagus and mashed potatoes, and at the cutting station at the end, he got a hunk of ham and a slice of roast beef. I settled for a split dinner roll and a sliver of turkey. He stared at my plate disapprovingly. “To each his own,” he told me.

  We found seats at a table with a few of the other brawlers including Maddox and Dominic, all in front of plates heaped high with food.

  “Freaky ceremony,” Maddox said.

  Dominic closed his lips and sat back, somber-faced, then did a terrible impersonation of the monk’s hum chant. A cloud of bright red blood streaked the whites of one of Dominic’s eyes, surely a hemorrhage from our fight. And it was hard not to notice he’d cut his dreads, trimming the singed edges. I scanned the room for Santana, looking for a bandaged ear, but he wasn’t there. I’d heard it took six stitches.