by Nancy Rue
Finally I could talk to Geneveve alone. By the time she was propped in the cushions of the red chair in the living room, swallowed up in one of my nightgowns and two of Sylvia’s crocheted afghans, she was in less of a stupor. I actually would have preferred the semicoma to the fretful plucking at the fibers I was seeing now, but I had to get some information out of her.
I sat on my feet at the end of the plaid couch with a glass of ice water wondering how Geneveve could have all those covers on her and still be shivering—and went into the paragraph I’d prepared while she was in the tub.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you felt like you could come here.” I didn’t add that I was flabbergasted that she’d found the house again in the condition she was in. “And if it was just for a place to be while you grieve for your father, that’s perfectly fine. I just need to know—”
“He said you was an angel.”
I blinked. Had Ed said that when she was there? If he had, I was amazed that she’d even heard it, much less recalled it. That was at once reassuring and enough to curdle the spinach pie in my stomach.
“I’m not an angel by any means,” I said.
Geneveve shook her head. “If my daddy said it, it was so. He was right about everything. Only I never listened.”
Her face collapsed and once again she wept without sound, without tears.
“None of us listened to our parents,” I said. “We probably spend most of our adult lives trying to sort out what we should have paid attention to and what we were better off without.” I stopped short of mentioning that I’d been through that process and had come out with about two sentences I was glad I’d heard from my father—even fewer from my mother.
“I disappointed him his whole life,” Geneveve said. “I don’t want to be disappointin’ him in his death, too.”
That made so much sense I put my glass down and motioned for her to go on.
“He shoudna died by hisself in that place. I shoulda took care of him.”
I couldn’t argue with her there.
“He took care of me and Desmond till he got so sick he couldn’t do it no more, and then I left him with nobody to look after him. My sister, she done left before that and went to Africa ’cause I told her I’d be there for him.” She pushed out the last sentence between the cracks of her sobs. “I ain’t never kept a promise in my life.”
I let her cry while I fought back the pain in my chest. Her pain. It was big enough for both of us.
When she seemed to have nothing left but raw-edged sighs, I unfolded myself from the couch.
“I’ll get us some tea,” I said.
I was halfway to the kitchen when I heard, “You ask me why I come here.”
“Yeah.” I crossed my arms and rubbed my shoulders. I was shivering now too. “Why did you?’
“I want a funeral for my daddy,” she said. “But I don’t know how to do it.”
I didn’t either, but I didn’t tell her that. I just nodded and said, “Okay, Geneveve. We’ll get on it first thing in the morning.”
She closed her eyes and nodded back. By the time I returned with the tea, she was sleeping the sleep of a soothed little girl.
I sat down and watched her.
Planning a funeral for a virtually destitute man was no easy matter.
My first call Tuesday morning was to Willie at the nursing home, who told me the same thing she said she’d told Chief: Ed’s body had been turned over to the county coroner. A weary-sounding woman in that office said “the deceased” would be held for two days and buried in the San Lorenzo Cemetery on Highway 1. Unless someone claimed his remains. I said I’d like to do that.
“You a relative?” she said.
“I’m representing his daughter,” I said.
That seemed to satisfy her, though it terrified me.
The next dilemma was where to have old Ed delivered for embalming, and how to pay for it. I called Willie back.
“Who do I talk to about Ed’s finances?” I said. “I’m trying to put a funeral together and—”
“You and Chief need to work on your communication skills,” she said.
“I’m sorry?”
“I told him when he called—the business office has all that. You have Chief’s number, don’t you?”
As a matter of fact I did. When we hung up, I located the card that was still in my jacket. And then I sat staring at it. Crisp black letters on professional cream-colored stock read: John J. Ellington, Attorney at Law.
“You have got to be kiddin’ me,” I said out loud.
“What?”
I looked up at Desmond, who had finally hauled himself out of the chair in the den and was standing in the kitchen doorway, hair even more reminiscent of a giant wad of steel wool than it had been the night before. Evidently the boy woke up the same way he went to sleep: running his mouth.
“Trouble with yer man, Big Al?” he said. He scratched his armpit, which had to be difficult to find in my old black T-shirt. He was wearing the same jeans he’d had on when he arrived, though I’d put them in the dryer with some Dryel while he was in the shower to remove the faint but unmistakable scent of marijuana.
“You want some breakfast, Clarence?” I said.
“Yeah.” He grinned widely as he went for the other armpit. “You gonna make me some of them Eggs Dominic?”
“Are you talking about Eggs Benedict?” I said.
“Yeah.”
I was having trouble keeping the laughter out of my voice. “Do you even know what they are?”
“I just know rich people eat ’em.”
“I’m not rich, dude. What’s it going to be, a frozen waffle or a bowl of Raisin Bran?”
“Raisin Bran?” He swore his way into his next sentence. “That is old people’s cereal. My granddaddy used to eat that.”
I was about to address the language issue, but I switched gears at the mention of his grandfather. I pulled a waffle out of the freezer and popped it into the toaster first, then poured him a glass of orange juice and waved him to the bistro table.
“You talking about your Granddaddy Ed—your mom’s father?”
“I ain’t got no other granddaddy.” He chugged the juice and set the glass on the table like he was down at the Magic Moment. “Hit me again, will ya, Big Al?”
I narrowed my eyes. He smiled.
“Please?”
I filled his glass. “You had breakfast with him from time to time, did you?”
“Me and him lived together till he had him a stoke.”
A stoke?
“I ain’t seen him in a while.”
The waffle popped up, and I supplied Desmond with plate, syrup, and butter.
“Have at it,” I said, heading for the doorway. “I have to make a few phone calls.”
“’Bout what?”
“You like to get in my business, don’t you? I’m trying to make arrangements for your grandfather’s funeral.”
“He dead?”
I wished I were when I turned around. His face was stricken.
“Desmond, you didn’t know?” I said. “I am so sorry.”
I started toward him, but he slid out of the chair and dodged me like a pinball as he headed for the den. I let the door slam without comment. My next impulse was to wake Geneveve up and wring her neck.
Instead I dialed the cell phone number Chief had written on his card. He answered on the first ring with “Jack Ellington.”
“You didn’t tell me you were a lawyer,” I said.
“Do you need one?”
“I might. This is Allison Chamberlain.”
“I was hoping you’d call.”
His tone was professional, though not what I would call lawyerly. The image of his pon
ytail flying out of his Harley helmet still made that hard to fathom. If anything, his manner was calming, and heaven knew I needed that at the moment.
“I’m trying to organize a funeral for Ed,” I said. “You’ve talked to the people at the nursing home?”
“Yeah. He had enough set aside for the basics, which, incidentally, his daughter tried to withdraw at one point, but it’s their policy that at least enough to cover funeral expenses has to remain in the account. I called the county morgue, and they said—”
“Yeah, I claimed his body for Geneveve. They just need to know where to send it.” I swallowed a rising lump. “I hate that we’re talking about him like he’s a package nobody knows what to do with.”
“I hear that,” Chief said. “Resurrection recommended Bates and Hockley. You want me to take care of that end?”
“I would owe you big time.”
“You can’t afford to owe me. You already made a promise that’s probably going to cost you more than you bargained for.”
“You don’t need to tell me.” I slipped out the kitchen door to the shady heat of the side porch and lowered my voice. “I’ve got Geneveve and her son here—and let me tell you, this kid is a piece of work. Little con artist. Plus she didn’t even tell him his grandfather died. Here I am, casually tossing it into the conversation and he doesn’t even know.”
I peeked through the den window. Desmond was concave in the chair, remote pointed at the television. I’d have bet the farm he had no idea what he was watching.
“Geneveve wants a funeral, which is fine, but who’s going to come? She said her sister was in Africa—I don’t even know what that’s about—”
“I’ll get some people there,” Chief said. “You take care of the rest.”
“That’s my next phone call,” I said. “Listen, Chief—thanks, okay? I’m freaking out here, and I really appreciate the help.”
“This is you freaking out?” he said. “You want to come work for me?”
I laughed—for what seemed like the first time in days.
Okay, maybe this wasn’t going to be so hard. At least I could count on Pastor Garry. Weddings, baptisms, even funerals—he shone when it came to administering the sacraments. Bonner told me Garry’s handling of his wife’s funeral was the reason he started coming to Flagler Community. And Mary Alice’s husband’s memorial service was one of the most beautiful sacraments I’d ever been a part of. It had made me want to go to meet the Lord right then, yet at the same time embrace the rest of my life.
The Reverend Howard was predictably glad to hear from me. I closed my eyes for a moment and savored his ecclesiastical jollyness. I really had to get me some of that.
I told him why I was calling, including the part where the daughter of the departed was a drug addict living on the street with her son. With every word I felt a little more unburdened. This must be what it felt like to make a confession to a priest. When I was finally empty, Garry paused and I breathed into it. Yeah, I should do this more often.
“How well did you know this man, Allison?” he said.
“Not very,” I said.
“Do you know anything about where he was with the Lord?”
There was an unexpected sternness in his voice that made me switch the phone to my other ear, as if he’d sound different from that side. “Do you mean, was he a Christian? I don’t know. Does that matter?”
“Does being a Christian matter?”
“That’s not what I mean. Are you saying you can’t do his funeral if he wasn’t?” I was already shaking my head.
“I’m not saying that at all.”
“Okay, so …”
“It just makes a difference in how I conduct the service.”
I switched ears again. I could not be hearing this.
“Is it because he’s not a member of our church?” I said.
“No—”
“Look, this was a good man. And his daughter needs this. So does his grandson. There’s money to pay you, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”
“Allison. You know better than that.”
Five minutes ago I thought I did. That was when I was talking to someone who didn’t go all patriarchal on me.
I could hear him flipping pages. “When do you want to do it?”
“I’ll have to get back to you after I know when Bates and Hockley is going to have him ready.”
“I have tomorrow afternoon free, but that’s about it.”
“Pencil me in,” I said between gritted teeth.
“I’m not trying to dance around this, my dear—”
“Really?” I said. “Because it seems like you’re doing a pretty effective foxtrot right now. I’ll call you back.”
“Do,” he said. “We need to talk in more depth.”
I hung up knowing I didn’t want to dig any deeper. I already didn’t like what I’d just uncovered.
The funeral was finally set for the next afternoon, Wednesday, at three p.m. By the time that was established, I had twenty-four hours left to keep Geneveve clean and sober, and myself from flushing her kid down the toilet. The latter was harder by a long shot.
Geneveve slept, except for the two hours we spent at the Premium Outlets just outside town buying them something to wear to the funeral that didn’t make them look like refugees. Which, I realized with a start, they were.
When we arrived, Desmond emerged from mourning with the speed of someone who is terrified of his own grief. At least that was my take on it as he sprang from the car like a greyhound at the starting gate and sprinted across the parking lot. When we reached him, he had his face pressed to the window at the Nike store.
“Those right there,” he said, smearing the glass with his finger. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
“We won’t be adding that pair to your wardrobe today,” I said. I’d noted when he arrived at my house that he was wearing a pricey-looking pair of Adidas. I didn’t even want to know how he’d acquired those.
With a grin he said, “It’s all good,” and headed toward American Eagle.
“Your mom gets to be first,” I said, and corralled him into Coldwater Creek.
Where Geneveve sat shivering in the dressing room while I scraped hangers across the racks and wished India were there. I wasn’t even that good at picking out clothes for myself. I just grabbed everything black I could find in extra small and sort of shoved it all at her, and then went after Desmond, who was scoping out the jewelry display. I patted him down and found two pairs of gold hoop earrings in his pocket.
“I was hopin’ you was gonna buy these for me,” he said.
I studied his earlobes. “You don’t even have pierced ears. Try again.”
“I was just seein’ if you was payin’ attention.” He gave me the magical grin again. I was less charmed by it all the time.
Geneveve couldn’t quite choose an outfit, and the sales clerk did little more than guard the cash register as if we were in there to stage a heist. I snatched up a skirt, tank, and jacket and a pair of leather sling-backs and slid them across the counter at her.
There was no, “Will that be all for you?” or “Did you find everything you were looking for today?” or “We have some cute necklaces that would give this a little color.” The woman seemed bent on getting us out of the store as fast as she could—which was good, because Geneveve and I emerged just in time for me to keep Desmond from jimmying open the gumball machine outside the door.
“Come on,” I said. “We’re going to Old Navy.”
“No Abercrumble and Finch?”
“Aber—in your dreams, Clarence. Come on, move it.”
We had to, because his mother was beginning to splinter again. She crept behind Desmond and me with her arms crossed tightly enough to cut off her hea
rtbeat, and her knees buckled about every five steps. Her eyes were the only part of her that seemed fully operational as they cut from side to side like fugitives ducking down alleys. It was hard to tell whether she was on the lookout for cops, a john, or a score. It was probably all three, but in any case, it was disturbing—and not only to me but apparently to the other shoppers as well. One mother pushed her two kids completely off the sidewalk to avoid contact with us. A pair of middle-aged women in capris stepped into the doorway of Gap to let us pass. If somebody didn’t call security before we left, I’d be surprised.
Some of that was understandable. Desmond was, after all, cavorting several yards in front of me, leaving his fingerprints on every object within pawing distance and making remarks laced with profanity that could probably be heard out on the interstate. As for Geneveve, she looked as if I’d plucked her out of a brothel for a field trip.
Actually I kind of had.
Old Navy was a nightmare even before we walked in there—sale items piled in heaps where rabid shoppers had already picked through and left the dregs, and rock music blaring so loud I thought our next stop was going to have to be the hearing-aid center.
Nix that. I was never taking Desmond, alias Fingers Sanborn, into a store again after this. I had to frisk him twice before we got to the checkout line with black jeans, three already faded-looking collared shirts that he insisted on having in two sizes too big for him, and a package of socks. I relieved him of the wallet and man necklace he’d slipped into his pockets and handed them to the cashier.
“We won’t be needing these after all,” I said.
Desmond muttered his favorite epithet under his breath. He seemed to be able to use that word for everything but a coordinating conjunction.
I had the undeniable sense that I was going down in quicksand.
Geneveve headed for bed the minute we got to my house, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before she’d need another dose of whatever she was on. It was either going to get ugly, or she would simply disappear and leave me with her little reincarnation of Al Capone.
