Best Supporting Role

by Sue Margolis

  The day before, I sat the kids down and we had the funeral talk. I explained that grown-ups often got very upset at funerals. “Some of them might be crying, but don’t be frightened. It’s perfectly normal.” They were nodding and taking it all in and I was congratulating myself for making a halfway decent go of this when Ella asked what a grave was. Even before I’d finished explaining, she became distraught. How could I bury her daddy in a deep, dark hole full of creepy-crawlies? I was the cruelest person in the whole world and she hated me. Oddly, it was Dan who managed to calm her down.

  “When we buried Jeffrey, our class hamster, Mrs. Willoughby explained that he couldn’t see or feel anything anymore and that he’d be fine and wouldn’t be frightened.”

  “Dan’s absolutely right,” I said. “Daddy can’t feel anything. He won’t be scared.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Telling the kids about sex was going to be a breeze after this.

  When I tried to persuade Ella to wrap up warm and wear trousers and a sweater to the funeral, she virtually threw a tantrum. “No! I’m saying good-bye to my daddy today. Trousers are ugly. I want to look pretty.” She insisted on wearing her pink fairy dress under her winter coat.

  Unlike Ella, I didn’t look pretty. Grief plays havoc with the complexion. My skin was gray. It was also chapped and dry from all the tears and nose blowing. Foundation and a bit of mascara would have brightened me up, but I hadn’t bothered on the grounds that it was only going to get washed away and leave me with streaks and panda eyes.

  I hadn’t bothered much with my funeral outfit either. That was partly due to grief, but it was also because I had no money. The poorer Mike and I had become, the less interest I took in what I wore. Back when I was studying fashion at art school, all my outfits had been meticulously planned. In a week I could go from emo (black everything, multicolored stripes in my hair) to grunge (ripped tights, Doc Martens) to vintage (1940s shirtwaister dresses with shoulder pads.)These days I lived in leggings and jeans. I always managed to scrape together the money for a decent haircut, though—usually by eBay-ing some fancy objet I’d bought when we were doing up the house.

  Mum wanted to take me out and buy me a dress for the funeral. She had in mind a black shift dress, lifted with a long string of pearls and topped off with a chic little hat—nothing too overstated. Jackie Kennedy was the widow to beat. I said thanks but no thanks and opted for black leggings, a woolen tunic top and boots. To her credit, my mother, who wasn’t known for her tact, had the sense not to say anything.

  Mum’s prediction had been right. We did get a decent turnout. Over a hundred people showed up. Mike’s work colleagues came—although I’d sent a message saying that I didn’t want Louis Liebowitz there. Rightly or wrongly, I blamed him for Mike’s addiction, and by extension—ludicrous as it may have seemed—there was part of me that blamed him for Mike’s death. I’d never truly hated anybody in my life, but my feelings for Louis Liebowitz came close.

  There were relatives at the funeral I hadn’t seen since our wedding. Uncle Barnet was there. He’d clearly managed to get a reasonable quote from a cab company. There were other oldies, too, who had come—according to my mother—because a funeral made a day out and, like Uncle Barnet, they could never turn down a free bagel brunch.

  Glad as I was to be surrounded and supported by all these people, part of me wished they weren’t there. It was no comfort to hear how shocked and “utterly devastated” they were. My dad’s sister Gloria couldn’t stop talking about her devastation. “Me and your uncle Jerry were on holiday in Tenerife when we heard. There we were, just sitting by the pool reading Fifty Shades of Grey. I thought I was going to pass out from the shock. But thank God there was a doctor sitting next to us—lovely man—retired gastroenterologist … American … from Englewood, New Jersey… . We have cousins there—the Bermans—but he didn’t know them… . Anyway he got me to put my head between my knees… .”

  Even though they meant well, it was no consolation to hear from Mike’s workmates what a great, laugh-a-minute guy he’d been. Several told me that before he’d left the office that day to place his final bet, his parting words had been, “Napoleon … small bloke or just a long way away?” I wanted to yell at them. “Yes, he made everybody laugh, but you don’t know what he was really like. If you only knew …”

  Standing at the graveside in the frigid air, a silent, bewildered child on each hand, I was grateful for one thing. I thanked God that Mike’s parents hadn’t lived to see their son’s coffin being lowered into the ground. He’d always complained about having elderly parents. In the end it turned out to be a blessing.

  • • •

  On the way home in the limo I sat between the children, an arm around each of them.

  “So, is Daddy in Kevin yet?” Ella said. “And how do you get to Kevin?”

  “It’s not Kevin, dummy,” her brother came back. “It’s heaven. Angels come to collect you and you fly up into the clouds and you get to meet God.”

  “Can we meet God?” Ella continued. “Do you think Daddy would let us come for a sleepover?”

  Dan opened his mouth, clearly about to deliver another put-down, but I shushed him. “That’s a great idea.” I said to Ella, “And I’m sure Daddy would love to have you come visit, but unfortunately only people who have died get to go to heaven.”

  “That’s not fair.” She started crying.

  “Oh, sweetie,” I said, pulling her to me. “I know it isn’t fair. It couldn’t be less fair if it tried.”

  It seemed that telling my five-year-old daughter that her daddy was up in heaven being looked after by this kind grandfatherly God hadn’t softened the blow. It had simply left her with abandonment issues.

  “You know,” Dan said, “I still can’t believe Dad’s actually dead.” He was drawing a stick man in the condensation on the car window. “I keep thinking he’s away somewhere and in a few days he’ll be home.”

  “Me, too,” I said, giving him a squeeze. Part of me thought that Mike would be waiting for us when we got back to the house. “Hey—what’s with all the herrings and hard-boiled eggs? Has somebody died?”

  Dan rubbed out his stick man. “Mum … you know how God lets people die and then he has to make new ones?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, why doesn’t he make do with the people he’s already got? If he did, then Dad wouldn’t have had to die.”

  “Well, I guess people have to die when they get really old.”

  “Yes, but Dad was only a bit old. God shouldn’t let people die who are only a bit old. It’s a waste.”

  • • •

  A few days after the funeral, the children went back to school. I had been expecting protests and tears, but they went without a fuss. It occurred to me that they were glad that things were returning vaguely to normal.

  I stood watching as they were greeted with hugs and homemade cards from their friends. Having lost their dad, they were suddenly the center of attention. Maybe in a weird kind of a way they were about to become the cool kids to hang out with.

  There were condolences and hugs for me, too. Mothers I knew, and some that I didn’t, came up to me and said if there was anything I needed, I should just pick up the phone. Oh, and Jim/Tom/Dave was great with a wrench. If I needed any jobs doing around the house, he would be more than happy to oblige.

  Some of the mums said that they were heading down the road to the coffee shop. Why didn’t I come along? It would do me good. I thanked them for all their kindness and declined. I was too immersed in grief to socialize. I wanted to get home. Back to my cocoon, where I didn’t have to pretend that everything was OK.

  I was heading back to the car when I saw Imogen Stagge striding towards me. Was she wearing pj’s under her raincoat?

  “Sarah … I’ve only just heard.” Imogen made the Queen sound like Eliza Doolittle. Her hug involved much vigorous back rubbing. I felt like a forlorn Labrador bein
g greeted by its mistress. As she released me, I could see that she was indeed wearing pajamas. Tartan flannel. The trousers were tucked into a pair of dog-eared Ugg boots. “Dreadful news. Just dreadful. How are you? And how are the children coping? They must be devastated, poor little mites. I think if anything happened to Oliver, I’d completely fall to pieces.”

  “We’re bearing up,” I said.

  “Good for you … Doesn’t help to wallow. Now then … it occurs to me that what you need is something to keep you occupied. And in my role as chair of the PTA, I have been put in charge of organizing the spring bring-and-buy sale and I’m on the hunt for people to man the barricades.”

  Mike had loathed Imogen, on the grounds that she was bossy, condescending and most of all—posh. “And as for that disingenuous charm, they’re taught it at school—how to engage the lower orders in conversation and make them feel like nobody else in the room matters. Five minutes later they can’t remember who the fuck you are.”

  It was well-known that Imogen came from a titled family and was in fact the Honourable Imogen Stagge.

  I rather liked her. I admired her self-confidence—the fact that she said what was on her mind. I knew this was mainly down to class. The highborn tended not to go in for self-doubt, but it occurred to me that her assurance was also born of age. Having been delivered of the Honourable Arthur (her second son) in her mid-forties, Imogen was now over fifty and by her own admission had reached the stage in her life when, “Quite frankly, I don’t give a flying fart what anybody thinks of me.”

  “I know it’s only January,” Imogen was saying now, “but the sale will be upon us in no time. What do you say?”

  “Well, actually …”

  “First planning meeting is next week. I’ll put you down, shall I?”

  “I don’t know… . You see, things are still pretty …”

  “Come on… . It’ll take you out of yourself.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Good girl. That’s the ticket.”

  She patted my arm and urged me to keep my chin up, before striding off again.

  • • •

  It was a few more days before I could persuade Mum and Dad that I was strong enough to be on my own and that they could go home. So far I hadn’t had the luxury of being able to grieve alone. I needed that. They went, but not without a fight and not without making sure my fridge and all my food cupboards were full to bursting. Even then, Mum popped in every day with a chicken casserole or some chopped liver—“To keep your iron up.”

  As the weeks passed, the nature of my grief changed. I started to feel angry. It hit me at the oddest times—while I was emptying the trash or loading the dishwasher. I would look up at the ceiling and rage: “How dare you bloody die and leave me alone and broke with two children to bring up.” Then I would call Mike a bastard son of a bitch and collapse in tears at the kitchen table.

  Steve, the financial advisor we’d consulted before Mike died, broke it to me—not that I needed telling—that now that I was without Mike’s income, there was no chance of negotiating a debt payment plan with the mortgage company or any of our other creditors. If I wanted to avoid bankruptcy, my only option was to sell the house. The equity wasn’t huge, so there wouldn’t be much money left after the sale—certainly not enough for a deposit on a new place. I would have to rent.

  “Tell you what I’ll do, though,” he said. “I’ll try to buy you some time. I’ll write to all your creditors and let them know that the house is for sale. I’ll also explain that you’ve been recently widowed and that there are young children. If I appeal to their better nature, they might give you some breathing space and stop hounding you for payments. But you have to understand, I can’t promise anything.”

  When Steve called a couple of weeks later to tell me we had a deal, I burst into tears.

  “Steve, that’s amazing. I don’t know what to say. Thank you … thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.” He paused. “Oh, and … regarding my bill.”

  “Don’t worry. Just invoice me for what I owe. I need to find a job soon, so I’ll pay you in installments if that’s all right.”

  “No … sorry … you misunderstand. I wasn’t remotely hassling you for money. I was going to say that I don’t want paying.”

  “What? No … That’s ridiculous. I won’t have you treating me like a charity case.”

  “Well, I’m not taking any money from you and that’s final.”

  “Look, I know you mean well, but for my own self-respect, I have to pay you what I owe.”

  He let out a sigh. “OK … I’ve got another idea. Get yourself back on track financially and then pay me. It doesn’t matter if it’s five years from now.”

  “No. I need to pay you now.”

  “Sorry, but that’s my best offer. I refuse to take money from you when you don’t have it.”

  “OK … it would seem that I have no option.”

  “You don’t. So do we have a deal?”

  “I guess we do. And thank you. I really appreciate your generosity. But be in no doubt. I’ll be paying you back … with interest.”

  “We’ll talk about that when the time comes.”

  Steve wished me all the best, and a few days later I sent him a bottle of posh Scotch to thank him for his kindness.

  • • •

  It wasn’t long before the dinner invitations started to arrive—mainly from people I knew at ABT. They were concerned that I was at home moping and getting depressed—which I was—and that I needed to get out of myself—which, according to my mother, I definitely did. I’d always enjoyed getting together with Mike’s workmates. They were a hard-drinking bunch, but they were funny and irreverent and great company. I was so touched that they’d thought of me that I said yes to all the invites. Mum and Dad came to babysit and I attempted to find my way to houses and flats on the other side of London. Lost in the wilds of Streatham or Deptford, cursing myself for having been one of those ditzy, oh-it’s-all-too-complicated-for-me women who always let their husband take charge of the GPS, I’d never felt so alone.

  I was surprised to discover that being surrounded by people, couples in particular, did little to make the feeling go away. I wasn’t ready for the “Oh, we love that show… . No, we hated the food there… . We always pop a Valium before we have a long flight.” I hated their smug mutualness. I hated them.

  When I wasn’t busy being bitter and jealous, I was doing my best to cope with the children’s emotions. Soon after the funeral, Ella started wetting the bed. Both children insisted on sleeping with me. On top of that, they required constant cuddles and assurance that I wasn’t about to die.

  “In Annie, the children are orphans,” Ella said—she was practically watching the movie on a loop. “That means they don’t have a daddy or a mummy. What would happen if you died? Who would look after us? Would me and Dan go into a orph-nige?”

  I spent hours trying to reassure her that I had no plans to die until I was very, very old and that if by some chance I did happen to die while she and Dan were still children, then Grandma and Granddad would look after them.

  “But they’re old and they could die.”

  She was right. They could. I had no idea how to reassure her. In the end all I could do was take her in my arms and promise her faithfully that nobody else was going to die.

  Then there were the outbursts of anger. They never acted out at school. They saved it for home.

  My failure to produce the right flavor of potato chips or yogurt could result in toys being thrown, kicked and trodden on. Once when I suggested to Dan that he might think about tidying his room as the floor had pretty much disappeared, he started screaming and punching me. “I hate you. I hate you. I don’t want you. I want my dad.”

  They were blaming me for Mike’s death. Judy the grief therapist (who I’d found through Barbara the addiction counselor) told me what she always told me, that they were exhibiting textbook behavior and it was to be expe
cted.

  “I don’t care if it’s bloody textbook. It’s driving me insane.”

  “I know, but try to understand. Mike was snatched away from them in the most brutal way. Of course they’re going to be angry. And who else are they going to take it out on? Children see their mothers as protectors. According to their logic, you should have been there to save Mike.” She promised me it was just another stage in their grieving process and that their anger—and mine, come to that—would eventually subside. Meanwhile I had to stay calm, grit my teeth and wait for the storm to pass.

  “So once I’ve worked through all my bad feelings,” I said, “what do I get left with?”

  Judy smiled. “I can’t tell you that. People’s experiences vary depending on what sort of relationship they had with the dead person. All I will say is that you don’t get over the death of a loved one—or even an unloved one. With time, the feelings of grief become less intense, but they never go away. You simply learn to live alongside them.”

  So, a peace of sorts awaited me. I wondered how long it would take to reach it. For the time being, though, I had to put my search for serenity on hold and find a job. I was getting by on my state widow’s pension and the money I’d made from selling the Range Rover. (I’d begged Mike to sell it, but he always refused. The car and the house were outward displays of his success. Like he would be seen dead driving some old banger.) On top of my pension and the car money, there was a small pension from ABT. Had the contributions not been deducted automatically from Mike’s salary, he would have spent the money and left me with nothing.

  I planned to spend the Range Rover money on school fees. I could live with being seen driving a ’97 Fiat hatchback. I couldn’t live with the children being forced to leave the school they loved and all their friends.

  Finding a job in a recession was easier said than done. It didn’t help that I’d been out of the workplace since Dan was born. In that time I had developed excellent multitasking skills, but I doubted that any employer was going to pay me to rustle up a spag bol at the same time as building a Lego fort, unloading the dishwasher and breast-feeding.