by Ava Finch
When Bernadette takes the podium, orders her notecards, and adjusts her reading glasses to begin, her voice is melodic with meaning and clear, perfectly pacing Ky’s eloquent eulogy.
RayAnne leaks tears but is able to not blubber because she’s intent on not missing a word, wants to remember everything, no matter how hard. The sound system sends Bernadette’s voice high into the rafters. Ky had settled on a “what is a grandmother” theme—after years as a sportswriter, he is rather good at sound bites; his portion is sweet and the perfect length, one page.
Bernadette follows with her own contribution, a sad poem about a field of barley bending by the sea. This has people blotting their eyes. She pauses and gives a moment for all to blow noses before she winds it up, reading the short tribute RayAnne has written.
“My daughter’s words, Dot’s granddaughter—her only granddaughter.” Bernadette nods at her in the front pew. “RayAnne.”
“Dot loved simple things: cotton eyelet, Italian light on a steep lane, a glass of good wine. She loved the ocean and finding a piece of beach glass and looking at handsome men. She loved a ripe peach, having her toenails painted, and meeting people. She loved her little dog, Trinket, and her three-wheeled bike.
“Dot loved a dirty joke and sad movies and loved Saturday mornings at the farmers’ market. She loved to cook and she loved to feed people. More than anything, she loved the people she fed. There wasn’t much Dorthea Dahl did not like, although she did not like good-byes, and she did not like to write things down. She didn’t leave us a note.” Bernadette scans faces, settling lastly on RayAnne’s. “She didn’t tell us she was going. In leaving us, Gran acted as she did in life, simply . . .” Her voice rasps across the next line. “Not wanting to cause a fuss or make any grand exit. She just left.”
Bernadette requires a huge intake of breath to propel RayAnne’s last word into space. “Good-bye, Gran.”
With that, she walks to the altar and places a white rose in front of Dot’s framed portrait, a hand-colored studio portrait taken in Italy, in which she’s wearing an off-the-shoulder dress, looking absolutely beautiful. Next to the portrait is the urn. As Bernadette makes her way to the pew, the echoey silence peculiar to churches descends: rustlings punctuated by soft coughs, soles scuffing marble, sniffs and discreet honkings into handkerchiefs.
Without warning, the organist leans in hard with a note that sounds like the shift whistle at some old-time factory. It goes on long enough that people begin looking at each other, fearing the keys might be stuck, but then the organist sets off on a familiar if odd choice—a happy tune played on the instrument of dirges. When RayAnne recognizes the song, she snorts loudly.
Of course it’s meant for her; who but Gran would make such a request for a funeral? RayAnne clearly remembers the first time she heard Gran trilling “You Are My Sunshine.” She’d been about thirteen, racked with puberty and bitterly complaining about some petty thing. Gran had pulled her up from her chair and spun RayAnne into a sort of goofy waltz while singing the song in a falsetto trill: “You’ll never know, dear, how much I love yooooou. Now stop acting like a twit!”
From then on, whenever RayAnne was acting twittish, she was Gran’s sunshine. Which she didn’t mind, since it was also the name of Little Big Man’s Cheyenne wife—his one true love. When the organ reaches the siren pitch at you make me happyyyy, a second bark of laughter escapes her and she looks quickly to Ingrid, who smiles and shrugs as if to say, You guys!
RayAnne could not meet Ky’s eye even if she wanted to because he is bent forward, elbows on knees, shaking with either silent laughter or tears, his hands forming blinders at each temple. Over his bowed back, she sees Big Rick is quietly sobbing.
The sight stills her. Having never seen her father cry, she watches a moment before leaning toward him, but she is separated by Ky, which is the way it has always been, either him shielding her or her shielding him, taking turns being the buffer against Big Rick. But right now their father is sobbing—a shoulder-jostling sob that threatens to work up to some great spew, like bad weather.
Something shifts sideways in RayAnne’s chest, as if the bulk of her grief has budged over a nanometer to make room for another’s. She slips off the pew into a crouch and duckwalks around Ky in her glittery, squealing Keds. She hips her brother aside a few inches and wedges in. By the time the song ends, she is holding Big Rick’s hand, which makes him bawl even louder.
The minister returns to the altar, bestows a blessing over the urn, and carries it over to the family, unaware it holds only oatmeal. Right now Dot’s body is probably being refrigerated at some medical school, soon to be under the knives of medical students, whom hopefully Dot will teach a thing or two. RayAnne lets go of Big Rick’s hand so he might accept the urn. Trinket sniffs at it once, then growls.
The minister stands at the door, patting each mourner on their way out as if counting them. The entourage piles back into the limos and carts. The journey back is serrated by sniffles from the twins and whimpers from Trinket. Michael and Wilt are behaving for once without a bribe. Seeing their mother distraught makes them cry, and seeing them cry just makes Ingrid cry harder. She sits across from RayAnne, blotting the boys’ tears and her own with one hankie, trying to avoid snot.
After mourners are dropped at the gates to Dune Cottage Village, they walk back toward Dot’s cottage following the golf carts that ferry the oldest and frailest. The sun is already low, early evening tinged mauve. In contrast, Dot’s deck and a wide portion of the boardwalk are covered with a jumbo striped awning that is lit by swaying strings of lights, like a small carnival.
A trio of aging men with mustaches serenades the incoming mourners. They wear red, white, and green sashes and dip with each note of their fiddles. The accordionist scowls while playing jovial Sicilian tunes. Their eyes dart around under bushy eyebrows, triggering a memory of Dot describing musicians who were old coots retired from the Mob. Indeed, they look like they might know where a few missing bodies are.
Under the awning, an impossibly long table has been set with white linen, gleaming cutlery, and bone china, each place with its own family of crystal water glass, white wine glass, orbed goblet for reds, and champagne flute, all reflecting the light of a hundred candles. Considering the stemware, RayAnne can assume there will be alcohol. Lots. Just as she’s wondering where her father is, he emerges from the cottage with a cup of coffee.
The patio has been transformed into an Italian terrace, the sort of atmosphere Dot always aspired to in her restaurants but could never achieve, pointing out, “Well, we’re not in Italy, are we?”
But in a pinch the Florida coast is a reasonable second to Naples. The weather is cooperating, clouds parting to reveal a rising moon, a warm evening with a mild breeze. There are menu cards at intervals along the table, even a placard listing entertainment, beginning with the trio, Tre Guidos, and concluding with sparklers and a bonfire on the beach slated for midnight.
The reception line is more serpentine than straight. RayAnne and Ky slink to the receiving end, where Bernadette is somehow able to stand next to Big Rick without hitting him—very gracious of her, RayAnne thinks. If the tables were turned, her father might be all-avenging.
Mr. D. is in the line as the emissary of Dot’s neighbors and her present life. From her past, Mr. Rondo—the reigning ambassador of Dot’s restaurant days—hunches forward from his walker to greet mourners. He’d been Dot’s maître d’ for thirty years at four different restaurants. He is someone RayAnne would like to sit down with—if anyone has stories to tell about Dot, Mr. Rondo would.
She elbows Ky. “Did you know about all this?”
“A little. Dad showed me the orders for rentals and the booze. She planned a real partay-party. All those guys?” Ky nods at a few of the former jockey-waiters who had ushered at the funeral. In jockey fashion they’d beaten the motorcade back to the cottage and had traded their da
rk suit coats for snowy white waiters’ jackets and bow ties. “They’re all here at Gran’s request.”
RayAnne frowns. “She must’ve been planning for months. Do you suppose she told them she was about to kill herself? And oh by the way, will you come wait tables at my funeral?”
“Maybe. Maybe something like that.” As Ky lowers his voice, his eyes fill. “Listen. I think it’s pretty apparent that she wanted us to enjoy this, or at least appreciate her effort. I mean she did all this fucking planning, right? So let’s do that.”
“Have a good time when she’s—”
“Yes.” Ky cut her off, whispering, “She’ll still be dead after the party. Let’s just pretend she’s here for now, because she is. Look at it all.” He squeezes her hand. “Just do as close to happy as you can—it’s only one night.”
Through the sliding glass doors, RayAnne can see the steamy kitchen is bustling with a uniformed staff.
The first mourners in the reception line reach them, sympathy oozing from sad smiles and moist eyes. RayAnne and Ky endure an onslaught of comments they would normally argue with, such as Dot being in a better place or in the Lord’s hands now, having gone to meet her maker, smiling down on them.
Actually, she’s dead.
RayAnne holds her tongue and returns polite hugs and pats. The receiving line ends near the bar. She could use a glass of something. Ky’s cheeks are stippled by faint lip marks in old-lady shades of pink, coral, and poppy.
Since the church service, RayAnne’s curiosity has been piqued by the presence of a pair of cadets in full dress uniform. How might they factor in Gran’s life? They introduce themselves. Gerard and Benjamin. Both adored Dot. And both watch Fishing every Sunday and love it. Love. It. Gerard touches the fabric of RayAnne’s sleeve and correctly guesses the vintage of the suit. Benjamin tears up upon learning Dot was married in it. They had a running date each Sunday afternoon with Dot for GTG—Gin and Tonic and Gossip.
Gerard has a trumpet case tucked under an arm.
“Are you going to play something?” RayAnne asks. “Did Dot, um, book you?”
Benjamin steps up. “I talked him into bringing it, wondering if maybe you’d like him to play ‘Taps’ for Dorthea.” He leans in and whispers, “I know it’s not on the program, but Gerard is amazing.”
RayAnne smiles. “I’m sure Dot would like that.”
Ky motions for the other musicians to lower their instruments and Gerard raises his trumpet, polished to a glare.
By the third note everyone has gone still. The clear brass strains rise into the sky. A few of the older fellows—veterans—hold a salute for the duration. Gerard’s eyes remain closed while he plays, bending notes liquidly, not adhering to the military standard, but adding a soulful flair of jazz. The purity of it. Mr. Zagate is shaking his head.
At the finish, every eye needs dabbing.
The first drinks are knocked back like anesthesia. From a distance, RayAnne watches Bernadette gulp a chardonnay in two goes. The waiters scurry to refill glasses with bottles that look vintage and expensive. Dot always said serve the best wine first, when guests are still in possession of their taste buds; save the lesser stuff for the drunken half of the evening. Peering in the crates behind the bar, RayAnne sees there is no cheap stuff—tonight it’s all top shelf.
Her father, she notes with some relief, seems nearly oblivious to the imbibing—it’s as if he cannot drink enough coffee. Milling mourners are steered to seats at the long table, their faces softened with spirits and candlelight. She finds the placard with her own name and plops down between Mr. D. and Dr. Phillips. Both reach for covered baskets of crusty warm French bread, conducting with their butter knives.
A perfectly chilled Chablis is poured, and an appetizer of seared scallops in a ginger-lemongrass reduction is served. Mr. Rondo kick-starts the evening with a toast and a few instructions. After each course, guests are to change seats and sit with someone different. This is pure Dot—the tradition at her dinner parties. After scallops, RayAnne shifts down the table to sit with two women who are volunteers from the homeless shelter where Dot cooked. They spear at their arugula, pear, and glazed-walnut salads, declaring them “Almost too pretty to eat!” They entertain RayAnne with Dot-isms. The Guidos play lively tunes accompanied by the clinking of cutlery and stemware. Deborah has come, resplendent in a Jamaican print with matching turban. She attracts a smattering of applause when she dances the length of the table on her way to use the bathroom, slowing just long enough to twirl both of the twins. There are a surprising number of younger people present, from the women in Dot’s book club—all under fifty—to her farmers’ market friends—an organic citrus grower, the manager of the nonprofit Ethical Tomato, a young orchardist just getting established, and the flower farmer who had decorated the table so simply and elegantly—all ivory petals and pale greenery, nothing remotely funereal.
Dot’s water aerobics classmates are easy to pick out; they’ve all worn swim goggles around their wrists like bracelets. They make a production of presenting RayAnne with Dot’s goggles, which they have decorated with tiny shells and rhinestones. She is able to not cry only because looping the goggles around her own wrist makes her inexplicably happy.
During the course of Italian wedding soup, a pair of sisters barely in their twenties tell RayAnne how Dot mentored them with her many suggestions and encouragement when they’d launched their Cuban street food truck.
The musical chairs take on a slower pace, a humorous shuffle of people reluctant to leave their seatmates and newfound friends. RayAnne finds herself joking with the same elderly bakers who had made the cake for Dot’s birthday party only months before. Afterward, she shifts between two new tablemates. They are awed by all the fuss, relative newcomers to Dune Cottage Village who had only met Dot a few times and had been invited here by Dot herself.
“Are all the funerals here like this?”
RayAnne laughs.
Those who knew Dot well are not at all surprised at what she has accomplished here. And whether they know Dot intimately or merely in passing, all have lovely things to say to RayAnne about her grandmother.
A very tiny woman named Alice with a white beehive muses over how Dot was always able to convince whomever she was speaking to that they were the most important person in the room. “Oh, yes, wasn’t that just Dot! Your grandmother was like that—just like Bill Clinton, of course not so much with the shenanigans.” Alice rises on her toes and winks. “At least as far as we know.” When she throws her head back to laugh, Alice tips off balance stiffly, like a bowling pin trying to decide. She slips from RayAnne’s reach like something greased, but fortunately Ky happens to be passing and handily catches her, which everyone finds hilarious.
The jockeys parry and retreat with their wine bottles and serving trays, spiriting away dirty china and dealing in clean replacements. The main course is an autumn vegetable ratatouille with tenderloin medallions and sage gnocchi. A neighbor stands up to toast and tells how Dot brought her suppers every night for a week after her hip surgery, but insisted on serving them outside, each time setting the table a few feet farther down the boardwalk, giving her no choice but to walk for her suppers. She laughs. “Dot’s version of physical therapy—dangling a ginger-glazed carrot.”
By the time the cheese and fruit is wheeled out, most everyone has made some toast or tribute; even the waiters have, at some juncture in the meal, stopped in midserve or midpour to offer their own few words, making many versions of the same joke—I’ll keep this short. Most tributes begin with a smile and end on a sniffle.
They are celebrating a life and everyone is feeling very good. Most ignore the proffered coffee and hold out their glasses for the carafes of liqueurs and brandies.
Ky has given up trying to keep the twins from under the table, though no one seems to mind. It will be discovered too late that they’ve been taking cell phones from p
urses and jackets hung on chairs, then snapping pictures with them under the table—blurred shots of men’s shiny ankles and women’s stocking toes with shoes or sandals pried off their bunioned feet, dim snapshots of hiked skirts and legs not quite prim, thighs puffing from girdles as if from sausage casings. One catches a man’s hand caught on a thigh not his own, the blur of a slap.
After investigating the flashes going off under the tablecloth, Ky pulls the boys out by their ankles, and they return the phones to pockets and purses, though not necessarily the right ones.
Big Rick stands, clears his throat, and pulls a folded scrap from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “This is Dot’s toast. Many of you have been wondering if she’d written something. She did.” He scans the table while putting on his reading glasses. “It’s short.” He looks and sounds sober as a judge.
“Beautiful people. Thank you for indulging me. I know some of you are shocked by the way I’ve chosen to go. For those of you who are angry, please forgive, so that you can stop being sad and disappointed. Be kind to my family.” Big Rick raises his champagne flute of Diet Coke, reading on. “I have loved you all. Please enjoy your meal, and don’t forget to take doggie bags of leftovers the boys will pack for you.”
This gets a few mild chuckles.
Big Rick makes a sweeping gesture as he reads the final line, “Eat, drink, and be merry.”
RayAnne waits for the end, but Big Rick is shoving the paper in his breast pocket.
No for tomorrow we shall die. There is a silence, then glasses begin clinking. Crystal and smiles reflect candlelight.
RayAnne readies to get everyone’s attention to thank them for coming and to remind them the fireworks on the beach will commence shortly. Surrounding her are wise and lovely old people who will follow Gran to their own endings, and plenty of younger people who will only take more time to catch up to the end. It’s going to be rough with no Gran in her future—surely RayAnne is in for more heavy grief. Someday the memories will uplift rather than squeeze—the day may come when the taste of celery and raisins will not make her cry.
