Funeral with a View

by Schiariti, Matt

  I clicked the answer button and plopped my weary bones on the bed.

  “Hey, Bill.”

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Around.”

  “Around.”

  “Yeah, around.”

  “You avoiding me?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Because I get the feeling you’ve been avoiding me. Whenever I stop by, you’re on your way out. When I call, you clam up and say you have to go. Messages? Ignored.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You don’t sound sorry.”

  My patience was wearing thin. Getting up from the bed, I opened the curtain. The large hotel window looked down onto the inner harbor. Restaurants and shops dotted its periphery. To the left, the curved glass of the Baltimore Aquarium, and next to that the submarine-turned Maritime Museum, forever stationary, floating as if keeping an eternal vigil. Across the deep blue water, the cold stone of the Maryland Science Center. People strolled about in shorts and cool summer clothes, taking in the weather and the scenes. The water looked serene, inviting. I wanted to dive in and sink to the bottom.

  “Rick, you there?”

  Letting the curtain fall back into place, the room dimmed to a dull burnt amber. All signs of life on the outside were cut off.

  “Still here. What’s going on?”

  “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.”

  Bill sounded shitty, almost like he’d been crying. This is what I’d been trying to avoid.

  “I was going to call you.” Another lie. “Cat told me what happened last night.”

  “Can you believe that shit?” he asked. “She dumped me.”

  “I heard the whole story.” I leaned against the headboard and crossed my legs at the ankle, aimlessly flipping through television channels with the volume muted.

  “Rick, I haven’t felt this bad about a breakup since I was in high school.”

  “You really like her, don’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked her to move in with me if I didn’t.” Bill sucked in a breath. His voice took on a dark edge. “You know, it’s funny. The one time ... the one time I let myself get this invested in a woman and try to do what feels right, what I think is the next logical step in our relationship, she kicks me to the curb like some unwanted mutt. I’m not used to this shit.”

  For Bill, the monologue was his equivalent of an epic soliloquy, and the closest he’d ever gotten to ‘puking’ in his life. I didn’t know what to say. What’s more, I don’t think I had it in me to say anything even if I did. My heart wasn’t into playing love doctor to my wounded friend. There was no gas left in my emotional tank.

  “Can you get together for a few beers sometime this weekend? I need to get out and decompress.”

  “I wish I could,” lie number three, “but I’m in Baltimore for a conference all weekend.”

  “Fuck!” I heard what sounded like the wall receiving the business end of Bill’s fist. “Thanks a lot, buddy,” he said sarcastically. “Some friend you are.”

  He was joking, and I knew it. However, that didn’t prevent his comment from rubbing me the wrong way.

  “Bill,” I sighed, “grow the fuck up, will you?”

  “Say what?”

  “Grow a set, man. When are you going to start handling your own bullshit? I’m not always going to be around to lift you up when you’re down. Ever think of that? Or are you too busy thinking about yourself?”

  “You’re being an asshole, Rick.”

  Not the first person to tell me that this week.

  “Yeah, maybe I am.”

  “What the hell is your problem?”

  I flung the remote across the room. “I’m tired of bending over backward for people. Nobody ever stops to consider my feelings or how I’m doing. I’m sick of it, Bill. Fed up.”

  “Dude, you better back up. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You wouldn’t, would you? Never did.”

  Bill was right. I was being a total asshole. It didn’t feel good. Self-loathing crawled along my skin. In retrospect, I had no right to fly off the handle. My broken marriage wasn’t his fault. None of this was his fault. Bill wasn’t the villain I was painting him out to be, but in that moment, he was the misbegotten focus of every last ounce of my anger. It was one of many things I’d look back on later in my life, later in my death, that I would regret.

  He remained silent, no doubt shocked by the sudden unveiling of this awful side of me, a side he never knew existed.

  A side I never knew existed.

  “I don’t need this shit, Rick,” he finally said. “If you’re sick of all my baggage, I’ll find someone else to discuss it with.”

  “Not a bad idea, Bill. In fact, it’s a great one. Why don’t you give Cat a call? You guys can get together and talk about what a jerkoff you both think I am.”

  “Fuck you, Rick.” His voice was full of emotions I wasn’t used to hearing from the big man. It stung.

  He hung up without giving me the chance to reply.

  I dropped the silent phone to the bed. It flopped like a fish out of water gasping for oxygen it wouldn’t get and went still. I turned to the window. Sunlight cut a shimmering triangle on the harbor. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass and caught sight of my reflection. It was thin, lacking in any substance. I looked at it, and a shadow person stared back at me.

  I turned away, and let the curtain fall.

  CHAPTER 51

  “Have you been injured in an accident?”

  Click.

  “But wait! There’s more! Get a second for only—”

  Click.

  “Coming up on the next Real Housewives of—”

  Click.

  “Contact your doctor immediately if you experience an erection lasting longer—”

  Click.

  I found a talk show featuring wretches who seemed to have lives worse than mine and set down the remote.

  The hotel room was dark. Light from the great outdoors had stopped trickling through the large window at least an hour ago. Only the glow of the TV kept me from tripping and breaking my face when I needed to get off the bed, which wasn’t often.

  Feet bare, khaki pants creased, white undershirt pulled out of my waistband, I settled my head into the pillows and watched a man the size of a Volkswagen confess to his equally large wife that he was having sex with her mother. The crowd booed, a chair flew, almost hitting the gray haired, bespectacled host.

  I shook my head and took a sip of water I’d poured from the tap.

  After the conference wound up for the day I went back to my room, locked myself in, and ordered some room service. A greasy container sat on the nightstand, a half-eaten BLT forgotten. My dress shirt and tie lay in a crumpled heap next to the bed with my inactive cellphone on top of them. No texts or calls all day.

  I was debating blowing my hard-earned money on a ten dollar soda from the mini-fridge when a soft knock came on my door.

  “Housekeeping.”

  The alarm clock read 9:15. “Go away.”

  Another knock.

  “Housekeeping.” The muffled voice was squeaky.

  “Go away.”

  “You need towel?”

  “No!”

  Yet another knock.

  “Housekeeping. You need sucky-sucky?”

  “What the … This is ridiculous,” I huffed, dragging myself from the bed.

  I flung open the door without looking through the peephole. My teeth gnashed. I wasn’t in the mood.

  “Look, I—”

  “Gotcha.” Sandy stood in the hallway, grinning. In one hand she held two glasses with the hotel’s logo etched into them, in the other, two airplane bottles of what looked to be vodka which she shook like a bell. “And on the eighth day God created the mini-bar.”

  “He didn’t rest very long, did He?”

  “Nope. Mind if I come in?”

  She brushed past me into the room. I
caught a hint of soap and pot.

  “Um, sure. Make yourself at home.”

  Sandy threw herself on the bed, tucking her legs under her. She was dressed in running shorts and a gray Harvard Athletic Dept. T-shirt, the collar darkened from her wet, black hair. We’d played social tag for most of the conference, each with our own panels and presentations to attend.

  “Jesus, Rick. Jerry Springer?” she said.

  I shrugged, sitting in the recliner by the window. “Either that or porn, and I didn’t want accounting to shit a brick when they review the expense account.”

  “True. They’d collapse dead at their desks if they saw Weapons of Ass Destruction III on your bill. This, on the other hand,” she poured the tiny bottles of booze into each glass, already filled with ice, “is no big deal. Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” The vodka struck my throat with that anti-flavor that only vodka has, winding a burning trail to my stomach.

  “I have to say I’m very disappointed in you, Rick.”

  My ass clenched. “Why?”

  “The housekeeping bit. Haven’t you ever seen Tommy Boy?”

  My ass unclenched. “I thought it seemed familiar. Sorry, I’m a little out of it tonight.”

  “Is that why you weren’t at the party?”

  Unlike me, most everyone else in attendance gathered in one of the hotel’s ballrooms for the big Saturday night mixer. Food, drinks, music, mingling. I’d given my free drink vouchers to Jack Resnick, who looked like he’d gotten the golden ticket to a world famous chocolate factory. A big crowd wasn’t something I wanted any part of.

  I took another sip, shrugged. “How come you’re not still there?”

  She waved dismissively. “Pfft. And hang out with a bunch of desperate, horny guys looking to get laid? No thanks. I rubbed elbows with the right people then got out of there before the groping started.”

  “Sounds like a crazy good time.”

  “It’s a scene, man.”

  Footsteps bounded down the hall. A child laughed. A mother scolded.

  “I can go if you want,” she said, finger-combing her long onyx hair.

  Yes. I should have said yes, but I didn’t.

  “You don’t have to. I doubt I’ll be any company tonight, though.”

  “That’s okay. I’m only here to raid your mini-bar and order porn so you’re forever the office laughing stock.”

  A bright scene flashed on the TV, lighting up her face for a moment. Her eyes were glassy, her smile lopsided. I smelled the sweet fragrance of pot across the few feet that separated us.

  Sandy clinked the ice in her now empty glass. “No way I can watch Jerry Springer without another one of these. You look like you could use another, too.”

  She hopped off the bed, her bare feet silent on the carpet, and opened up the mini-bar. In the gloom, I could see the fabric of her shorts pressed tight against her ass. With a flick of the head, her damp hair flung to the side. Her T-shirt clung to her skin, exposing the shadow of her bra strap.

  “Get out!” That’s what I should have said. Instead, I stayed silent as I stared at her tight body and drank from melting ice cubes.

  She stood and walked to me with two open bottles …

  And tripped over my shoes in the dark.

  The bottles flew in the air. Arcs of clear liquid trapped the light from the TV and shot like electric fountains toward me. Bottles landed with muted thuds on the carpet. Sandy landed on the floor with a squeal. The vodka ended up in my lap.

  “Shit,” she muttered from the floor.

  I knelt next to her. Her shoulders were shaking.

  “You okay, Sandy? You’re not hurt, are you?”

  She leaned back on her feet, fists pressed to her eyes. When she removed them, I saw that she wasn’t crying, but laughing. Silent giggles turned into belly laughs.

  I found myself laughing, too.

  “Nice form,” I said, gasping for air. It felt good to laugh.

  “Oh my God,” she panted. “I knew I shoulda taken that left turn at Albuquerque.”

  Sandy’s laugh intensified to the point where it made no sound, and tears poured out of her eyes. She placed a hand on my shoulder to keep herself from falling flat on her face. “Sorry about the mess.” She pointed at my crotch. “It looks like you peed yourself.”

  My pants were soaked. Her finger was dangerously close to the stain.

  I looked up, grinning, and saw that Sandy had stopped laughing.

  Our mouths were less than a foot away. One side of her face was cast in shadow, the other bright from the TV. She wasn’t wearing any makeup. She didn’t need to. Her skin was flawless.

  My throat went dry, and it wasn’t from the vodka. I smelled the damp on her shirt, the pot on her clothes, the vodka on her breath. One bright blue eye studied me, looked through me. She licked her full lips. I wasn’t aware if my heart was beating or not.

  The next thing I knew she was kissing me. Sandy pulled my face to hers. Our tongues met. At first I stiffened, going perfectly still, then closed my eyes and let myself be absorbed in it. A voice in my head screamed: “Pull back! Cease and desist!”, but the hardening in my pants screamed something else.

  Breaking the kiss, Sandy began taking off her shirt. Her wet hair prevented it from being removed in one go. I helped her, grabbing it and pulling it over her head. As soon as the shirt cleared her chest, large lace-clad breasts flopped free and bounced. Her lips found mine again, hard, taught nipples crushed to my chest. I ran one hand through her damp hair, the other running up along her side. Her body was fit and toned, but her skin was soft. A moan escaped her mouth under my touch. Sandy caressed my shoulders, neck, and back, slowly working her way down.

  After a severe bout of tongue wrestling, an angel on one shoulder poked through the veil of lust. “You’re a married man,” it scolded me. The devil on the opposite shoulder told him to shut up, and smacked him in the mouth.

  I ignored them both.

  Sandy helped me pull off my shirt, then I lowered her onto the floor, one hand on the small of her back for support. Frantic fingers worked at my belt buckle as she spread her legs like wings. The bulge in my pants pressed against her crotch, friction building up between the rubbing fabrics.

  “Mmmm, Ricky,” Sandy moaned.

  Ricky.

  My preferred nickname burrowed into the center of my brain and gave me pause. Sandy had only called me by that name once, when she was stoned at her house. Most people call me Rick. The one person I chose to spend my life with called me Ricky more than anybody else.

  Catherine’s face, the look of hurt and anger stamped upon it from the last time we’d seen each other, ingrained itself on my eyes.

  What am I doing?

  I pulled my body from hers, pushing against the floor with my hands, stopping things before they went any farther. They’d gone too far already.

  “I can’t do this, Sandy.”

  She ran fingers through my hair. “Yes you can.”

  “No,” I said, removing myself and sitting by the TV stand, where I wrapped my arms around my knees. “I’m married. This can’t happen. I love my wife.”

  She sat up and looked at me as if realizing the reality of the situation for the first time. “You’re right. Jesus Christ, what am I doing here?” In a rush, Sandy found her shirt and put it on. “I’m sorry, Rick.”

  She wiped at her eye with the back of her hand and tried to open the door, but I sprung up and stopped her.

  “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression. There’s some things going on in my life right now … If I were single, then this would be a different situation, Sandy. But I just can’t.”

  She seemed saddened, but allowed a tiny smile to bend her lips. It was a hollow, lost look, not at home on her face. I felt like a complete dirt bag for putting it there. All I seemed to do lately was hurt people. I was sick of it.

  Her knuckles softly grazed my cheek. “I know.”

  Then Sandy disappeared down
the hallway.

  CHAPTER 52

  Our house was dead silent. No sounds of the TV from the bedroom, no clacking of a keyboard from the home office, no sounds of running water from the shower or bathtub. It was still as a tomb.

  Maintenance issues grounded my flight home by a few hours on Sunday, and I didn’t set foot into my house until ten at night. I’d texted Catherine, letting her know that I’d be late. Her reply was a single letter: K. At least I knew she was still alive. The hours spent sitting in the terminal gave me time to think. My mind was made up; I was going to do anything I could to smooth things over with my wife. Living like we’d been was no longer an option.

  Having left my shoes in the foyer, I crept up the stairs, careful not to make a sound, and opened the bedroom door. Her blanketed form was a darker shadow against the black room. I heard her gentle breathing. She stirred, rolled over. Gentle breathing continued. Closing the door, I tip toed to the guest bathroom and turned on the shower, running the water hot as I could take it.

  Scalding water beat against me as I leaned my forehead against the warming tile. It hurt, but I didn’t move. The shower was both symbolic and practical. Not only did I want it to erase the grime of travel from my body, I wanted it to burn away the betrayal from my soul. I’d almost cheated on my wife. The thought repeated in my head again, and again, and again in a loop that seemed as if it would never end. Steam quickly built up around me, and I breathed it in, hoping to cleanse myself from the inside out, wishing it would stop the moment I’d shared with Sandy from flashing in my mind’s eye in a warm exhale. It didn’t. As the humid air filled my lungs, all I could think of was how I’d inhaled Sandy’s scent, an invigorating combination of marijuana, bath gel, vodka, and shampoo. The more I breathed, the more I recalled what we’d almost done, the more I wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t called me Ricky, like Catherine always did.