My Life, Starring Dara Falcon

by Ann Beattie

  At Grandma’s funeral, I was under no delusion that I might drift away. I also wondered who would come to the funeral if I died, and quickly realized it would only be the family. My friends were gone. I was out of touch with them, because I was a lousy letter writer, and also because the place I lived in, the people I associated with, seemed so thoroughly different from them that I couldn’t imagine living in a split world. It had seemed strange enough in college, the division between the straight people and the hippies: Why continue to think about people who were different, people I didn’t live among, and therefore would never be close to? It made me slightly heady to imagine that at my funeral there would be only the old familiars, the people guaranteed to show up, a small little group, but a group nonetheless.

  Dowell Churnin was wiping away tears with a handkerchief. I looked elsewhere, and saw Marie, sitting at her mother’s feet, reading a book. I could see Marie’s lips moving, and I wondered if other people could hear her. When I looked again in Tom’s direction, I wondered where Dara was. There was no reason for her to be at the funeral, but since Tom had come, I wondered where she was. In her newly decorated room, perhaps, memorizing her lines. Or out in the meadow—the meadow had no doubt bloomed by now. I hadn’t seen her for days because I’d been so busy helping to make funeral arrangements. I corrected my thinking: She might be grocery shopping. Or at the bank. I realized that I romanticized her life so I could wallow in feeling dowdy. It was as if Cinderella had invented sisters, just to feel blue. The world was not divided into happy, unconventional people like Tom and Dara and unhappy—why pretend we were happy?—couples like Bob and me. I was making myself feel worse by thinking in such simple black-and-white terms. Dara had said that she and Tom were in a “cooling-off” period that day at Corolli’s, hadn’t she? But what did she want, I thought, a little angrily: he adored her; he had given her his mother’s beautiful ring; he would be opening a business that would no doubt be very successful, even if that was accomplished at other people’s expense; he lived in a charming house that was well stocked with food and champagne, and she had her own inner chamber within it. If Dara wasn’t happy under those circumstances, how could I be happy with my mundane life? Damn her: she had called to my attention—without words, merely by her existence—an alternative to being enfolded into the sameness and increasing numbness of family life.

  Leaving the graveside after the minister concluded, Derek said to me: “Those two guys I had in the cab the other day were really something, weren’t they?”

  “The old gentlemen are disappearing,” I said. “It’s true. It’s going to be a different world.”

  “Right. Especially if we blow it sky-high.”

  “I told you not to talk about politics at the funeral,” Chris said, coming up beside Derek and laying a heavy hand on his shoulder. I saw the large shoulder pad move forward: it was Chris’s too-big suit Derek was wearing; he’d been outfitted in his father’s clothes for the funeral.

  “Yeah, well, Dad, you might say that, but plenty of evidence suggests we might just blow.”

  Chris steered Derek away; Bob was approached by Dowell, walking purposefully in his direction.

  “She was a wonderful lady, and I know you know how sorry we all are to lose her,” Dowell said.

  “Thank you, Dowell,” Bob said.

  “I’m very sorry,” Tom Van Sant said.

  Bob looked at him. “You knew her?” he said.

  “No, but I wish I had.”

  “Jean said she was over at your place drinking champagne the other night,” Bob said.

  “Yes,” Tom said. He didn’t pick up the hostility in Bob’s voice; I did, and hoped it would go away.

  “We should get going, Bob,” I said, hoping he’d respond to my tug on his sleeve.

  “When my grandmother died, didn’t Jean go over to your house for a drink? Isn’t that what she told me she’d been doing when the family gathered at my brother’s?”

  “You mean…is there anything wrong with our having had a drink?” Tom said. When Bob looked at him blank-faced, he turned to me.

  “If I’m restricted to quarters, it’s the first I’ve heard about it,” I said.

  “Well,” Tom finally said, “I really am very sorry.”

  “About Grandma’s death, you mean?” Bob persisted.

  “Yes,” Tom said.

  “Coffee at your place? Is that right?” Dowell said to me. He had been talking to one of the old ladies. Now he was rejoining the group.

  “Amazing,” Bob said. “Dowell—you’re voluntarily coming to have coffee with us?”

  “Bob,” I said.

  “I mean, I’m just confused,” Bob said. “Barbara has almost—well, I think I could fairly use the word ‘pursued’ you for so long. We’ll truly have the pleasure of your company today?”

  “What’s gotten into him?” Dowell said to me.

  “Are you coming, Dowell? Why, that’s wonderful,” Barbara said, taking Dowell’s arm.

  “My condolences,” Dowell said, patting her hand. “You know that.”

  “I just don’t know what I’ll do,” Barbara said, suddenly teary.

  “You’ll do just fine, as we all do,” Dowell said, continuing to pat her hand.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Bob said to me, steering me away.

  “Jesus, Bob. What’s gotten into you?”

  “Here the two of them stand—one who never even met the old lady—they’re getting ready to open their big fancy new business, and today they’re standing around pretending to be brokenhearted that Barbara’s mother has died? What on earth do you think Van Sant had in his head, coming to this funeral?” he said.

  “Maybe he’s trying to be friendly. To make it very obvious there’s no ill will.”

  “Maybe everybody has forgotten that this is a funeral to remember a very wonderful person whose old age was spent as a servant to people who had fucked up their lives,” Bob said. “Do you think anybody is having any thoughts about Grandma, or do you think they’re making personal appearances to advertise themselves?”

  “I’m not making an appearance to advertise myself,” I said.

  He looked at me, “You were fond of her,” he said grudgingly.

  “Maybe you should have kept it a very small, family-only funeral, if that’s the way you feel,” I said.

  “This is Barbara’s show, not mine,” he said.

  “I’m going home to relieve the babysitter. I’ll bring Joanna over,” Janey said, tapping me on the back.

  “Oh, okay,” I said.

  “Janey—what do you think about Van Sant and Dowell turning up for this occasion?” Bob said.

  “What do I think?” Janey said. “In what way?”

  “Go ahead,” I said. “We’ll see you soon.”

  “I would appreciate an answer,” Bob said.

  Janey looked at me. She looked at Bob. “I guess I think it was a nice gesture,” she said. “What should I think?”

  “Just asking,” Bob said.

  “See you,” Janey said, turning. She stopped briefly to speak to Derek, then continued quickly toward her car.

  “That’s really disappointing,” Bob said. “Not so much the response itself—she’s entitled to think whatever she thinks—but asking me what she should think. That’s so typical of people in this family. They take instruction, like they’re studying to convert to some religion.”

  “You have been in the worst mood I can ever remember you being in, Bob. Do you have any idea what you sound like?”

  “You tell me what I should think,” he said. “I’m with Janey. You tell me, and I’ll be sure to do just what you say.”

  “Do you think that because Janey was polite, she’s got no gumption? Is that what you’re saying?”

  We walked to the car. Frank was arranging for two old ladies to ride with us. They alternately thanked Frank and apologized for being a nuisance. Bob, suddenly charming again, assured them that nothing would please him more, and op
ened the back door of the car. They discussed among themselves who would enter first. It was decided that the smaller woman, Mrs. Bell, would precede the other, and that then she would take the other woman’s handbag while she got in. Slowly, this began to happen.

  “Frank,” Bob said, over his shoulder, talking in small bursts so the ladies wouldn’t overhear what he said: “When next you see Janey, tell her what you told me. She doesn’t know there were vultures at the funeral.”

  Frank nodded. He turned away, distracted, to speak to the minister.

  Bob winked at me. “Off we go, boss,” he said.

  I got into the passenger’s seat.

  “It was a very nice service,” Mrs. Bell said.

  “And a beautiful day, too,” Mrs. Denton said.

  Suddenly, the thought occurred to me: probably one or both of them had known Mrs. Aldridge. When I asked, Mrs. Bell immediately answered. “Gracie?” she said. “Yes, poor Gracie passed away just about the time Martha did. Did you know her yourself, Jean?”

  “Not well,” I said.

  “Is that the woman who married Topper Moulton?” Mrs. Denton said.

  “No,” I said. At the same time, Mrs. Bell said, “Yes.”

  I turned to look at her.

  “That’s right, she married Topper Moulton and later she left him for another man, I do believe.”

  “You mean Mr. Dubbell?” I said.

  “No, certainly not,” Mrs. Denton said. “First was Topper, and then you can’t believe all you hear, but I heard she ran off to Las Vegas to marry one man, and ended up marrying another!”

  “She did, indeed,” Mrs. Bell said. “My brother was the best friend of the man who thought she’d marry him in Las Vegas!”

  “Irving?” Mrs. Denton said.

  “Irvin,” Mrs. Bell said. “All his life, everybody mispronounced my brother’s name.”

  “Irvin,” Mrs. Denton repeated.

  “I just finished typing her manuscript,” I said.

  “Grace wrote a book?” Mrs. Bell said. “What did she write about?”

  “It was about her husbands. But she only mentioned three.”

  “Oh, there were more than three,” Mrs. Denton said. “I can remember four, and I do think there was an early marriage, but that might have been annulled.”

  “That’s right. I believe it was,” Mrs. Bell said.

  This was perplexing. Why had she omitted the other husbands? At the very least, it seemed that if you were going to define your life in terms of your marriages, you should include all of them. There was a long silence.

  “She made beautiful quilts,” Mrs. Bell said. She touched my shoulder. “Your Grandma Martha, I mean. She had real talent.”

  “She did,” Mrs. Denton said.

  We rode in silence again. Bob hated all the chatter; I could see his hands, white-knuckled, gripping the wheel. We passed the shopping center on Route 1, and the big UPS yard. If we’d turned right, we could have wound our way to the beach. It was where I would have preferred to go, but it was not where we were headed. I remembered Barbara’s birthday, and the sailing kites—finally, every one had been airborne. The birthday seemed like a long time ago, though it had only been in early spring. The time Bob and I went shopping for the kites had been one of our last enjoyable days together. That, too, seemed like long ago. I looked again at Bob. His jaw was set. The Buddy Holly glasses, with sunglasses clipped over them, obscured his eyes. He looked thinner. I worried—for the umpteenth time—that the commute to Boston was taking its toll. Was it only a week until Tom’s business opened? I counted the days until Labor Day and realized there were only nine. Then, at least, the suspense would be over. Instead of asserting that he’d adjusted and that nothing could be done, Bob would really have to adjust. Maybe when he did, he would get over his grudge against Tom. It had probably been a mistake to tell him the truth about where I’d been the night everyone else was at Frank and Janey’s, but some part of me had thought he was so frustrated with family demands that he would approve of my having drunk champagne instead of automatically going to Frank and Janey’s. Apparently, though, Bob had been threatened by what I’d done. Or was he unhappy because of whom I’d chosen to drink with? Maybe Tom just couldn’t win with Bob. Though Bob once claimed to feel sympathy for him, I suspected that now he only thought Tom was a real adversary: he wasn’t fond of Tom’s girlfriend, and he wasn’t fond of my fondness for Tom’s girlfriend, and Tom had also done the unforgivable in opening Snell’s. In spite of Bob’s desire to have less family togetherness, any outsider wouldn’t do. The person would have to be…what? Someone hardworking. Tom Van Sant was probably not long-suffering enough by Bob’s standards these days. Bob had a kind of reverse snobbishness about things like that. Imagine what he’d think if he knew about Tom’s scattering the wildflower seeds, screwing Dara in the field.

  When we got to the house, there was much discussion among the two ladies about how they would disembark. They decided on exiting through the same door. The ladies more or less bumped in unison, hats tipping and purses raised like parasols against the sun; they were amused at their own attempts to slide out—Mrs. Bell, in particular, getting the giggles. I found myself smiling, too, and agreeing with her that backseats had not been designed for anyone larger than a child.

  Inside the house, Bonnie and Drake stood at Frank’s side, forming a sort of unofficial receiving line. I smiled at Bonnie and she smiled back. When Janey arrived, I knew the two of us could make Bonnie feel more at ease. The people from Corolli’s had done what they promised: the table I’d pulled into the living room and put a white cloth on was set up with trays of Danish pastries, and two coffee machines were on the smaller, Formica-topped table. Frank was drinking a beer, which he must have brought with him, since we didn’t have any in the refrigerator. Barbara came in and collapsed on the sofa. The minister sat next to her.

  “Uncle Bob,” Marie said, “did you know that Lawrence Welk was a self-made millionaire?”

  “What’s that?” Bob said. “A book about Lawrence Welk?”

  “Yes. I want to read you something from it.”

  “Not right now, Marie. I have to talk to some people.”

  “Don’t talk to Louise,” Marie said.

  Louise was nestled into Barbara’s side. She was sucking her thumb. She had on a sundress covered with daisies. There were individual daisies surrounding the armholes and the neck. Her thin hair was pulled back with a small yellow headband.

  “Lawrence Welk was a first-generation American who made good,” Marie said, skipping toward her mother. On the way, she pointedly ignored Louise, even though Barbara reached out a hand, hoping to connect with Marie.

  “Land of opportunity,” Bob said.

  “What?” I said. I was getting coffee for Mrs. Bell, who didn’t know how to use the machine.

  “Lawrence Welk, and his lovely Champagne Ladies. Wouldn’t you love to have known what was really going on there?”

  Mrs. Bell, who had heard Bob’s last remark, looked confused.

  “Barbara drove me nuts,” Bob said. “All those nights watching Myron Floren and ‘the lovely little Lennon sisters.’ ”

  “He’s having a snit with himself,” I said to Mrs. Bell. It was all I could think to say.

  “Watch me cause a major crisis,” he said, whispering in Mrs. Bell’s direction, raising and lowering his eyebrows several times. He went to the sofa and knelt by Louise, then straightened up, with her in his arms. Marie saw it within fractions of a second. She rushed to Bob’s side and began to pull on his leg.

  “You have to share Uncle Bob,” I heard Bob say.

  “Oh, please, Marie, not today,” Barbara said, looking around for Sandra.

  “Pick me up, too!” Marie shrieked.

  “Tell me what it says about Lawrence Welk in your book,” Bob said.

  “Bob, please—Reverend, excuse me….” Barbara was on her feet, trying to remove Louise from Bob’s arms so Marie would stop shrieking.


  “Quiet, Marie!” Drake hollered from across the room. “I mean it.”

  With that, Marie threw herself on the floor and began to cry. Everyone who had been talking began to whisper, or stopped talking entirely. As she wriggled on the floor, Marie’s pink bow fell off. Louise, in Bob’s arms, tried to climb higher, onto his head. “Daddy!” she called, holding out her little arms.

  “Drake,” Bonnie said, nodding in the direction of the chaos.

  “This is perfectly ridiculous. I have no intention of intervening,” Drake said. He added: “Marie’s tantrums must not be indulged.”

  “Oh, gracious,” Barbara said, trying to get Marie to stop writhing on the floor. The reverend stood slightly back, as if water were creeping in his direction.

  Bonnie went to Bob and held her arms out for Louise. Something in her eyes made him relinquish the child, and Louise, of course, was happy to go, pointing, frightened, in the direction of her father. But when Bonnie reached Drake’s side, Drake turned his back.

  “Drake, you take Louise now,” Bonnie hissed.

  This woman was fiercer than I’d imagined. No one would have argued with anyone who used that tone of voice. And Drake did not, though he started and ended a brief conversation with the person nearest him in an attempt to save face before capitulating. At that point, both Marie and Louise were crying, and I looked across the room at Bob. What had he hoped to accomplish? Had he really wanted to cause this embarrassment and confusion and unhappiness? His look—his smirk, really—let me know he intended all of it. And then he devoted his efforts to consoling Marie, grabbing her up in his arms, waltzing her into the kitchen. For the first time, I really considered the possibility that he was a little crazy. I found myself gravitating toward Bonnie, because what she’d done made me think she was the sanest person in the room.