Sixfold Fiction Fall 2013
Page 4
Chapter Three of the Coffee Table Book of Funeral Etiquette would concern Funeral Dining Manners. When bringing a casserole to the bereaved, it is fundamentally inappropriate to include a card demanding that the mourner not break the dish. It is likewise unsuitable to ask the mourner to return said dish by noon the following day so that it may be used at the church potluck. I toss the pink 3 x 5 card bearing the words DO NOT BREAK along with Emma Midgett’s address in the trash and sit down beside my mom at their long dining table. Dad’s set out casseroles and Nate and Charlotte have stopped being awkward long enough to eat. While a nice casserole is traditional funeral fare, keep in mind that not all mourners may be fans of tuna noodle. Do not take it personally if the bereaved discovers that the triple chocolate cake, the macaroni and cheese, or the green bean almandine all taste, in his or her distress, like lumps of wet cardboard. I’d make a full-page illustration of a steaming tuna noodle casserole accompanied by a woman making an ick-face. Across from me, Austin stuffs lasagna in his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in six days. I have a moment of panic—what if I was so trapped in the Grief Bubble that I forgot to feed my son breakfast? Then I remember fixing his Golden Grahams.
“Remember the time May bought that awful bus?” Mom asks. She’s drinking her third mimosa, left over from the inn’s Sunday brunch.
It is unwise to mix alcohol and grief when another set of calling hours await. Save your imbibing for the wake. Remember, too, that consumption of alcohol may induce false memories of closeness with the deceased.
“Only May,” Charlotte says, putting her hand on my mom’s just for a second. See Chapter one, subchapter one: appropriate vs. inappropriate touching. Charlotte’s good at this sort of thing. She always has been. If Aunt May were here, she would’ve defended her bus. “That bus was damn practical,” she’d have said, slamming her fist on the table. “How many hours of enjoyment did your kids get out of riding that thing up and down the beach?” She’d have been pissed we made the executive decision to not take Walter to afternoon calling hours. Out the window, the Pamlico Sound is all whitecaps and sunshine, and I just want to be outside. Or maybe it’s that I want to be outside of myself. I don’t know how to crack the Grief Bubble, how to think about anything else. I feel trapped. If I were a mime, I could place my palms against its sticky, waxy surface. I contemplate this as a coffee table book illustration. Mourner Trapped in Grief Bubble. Then I remember Royce’s card. I excuse myself and go out onto the deck and sit in a swing.