I followed Lucy’s written directions and drove to Michael and Theresa’s house in West Omaha. As Tom had warned, the smell of the food did take over the car and nauseate me a little. Or maybe my nerves were making me sick. I parked in front of the house, which looked like a picture out of Family Circle magazine. To the side of the white, two-story home were tricycles, plastic bats, and balls strewn across a driveway covered with chalk drawings. A tree swing hung from the front oak tree with a doll lying next to it, and a few feet from the tree was a statue of Mary, a green Frisbee leaning against her. Not one sign that a very young mother was very sick inside this mirage of a perfect world.
I walked up to the front door with a broken screen. I shifted the box to one hand and knocked on the door. Michael opened the door with a gigantic smile on his face. Smiles everyone. Keep your tears at the door.
“Ben, how the heck are you? Come on in.” Behind Michael stood Theresa’s mother, Mary O’Brien, who looked so much like her sister, Sheila, Stinky Morrow’s mother, that I had to take another look.
“You know Mary, don’t you, Ben? Since our little Mary Elizabeth was born, we like to call Theresa’s mother Big Mary.”
Mary O’Brien laughed and came toward me with a gentle hug. “Please don’t call me Big Mary, Ben. Wow, Ben Keller from Maple Crest. You haven’t changed a bit.” Not something a thirty-six-year-old man likes to hear, but that was all right.
I followed them inside and set the meal in the box on the counter. Toys and kids were everywhere, and I heard The Lion King playing on the TV in the other room. An awkward silence transpired as I stood and looked at Michael and Mary, an awkward moment when three people who have a connection with each other meet but the connection was not in the room. I sensed this was my clue to leave. I guess I wouldn’t get a chance to see Theresa. I smiled and mumbled a good-bye as I started walking toward the door.
“I think Theresa’s awake, if you want to say hi. I know she’d love to see you.” Michael picked up a little girl, who held her arms up to him.
“Sure.” I hesitated. I turned toward the direction Michael was walking and looked down into the big eyes of a barefooted wild monkey wearing an Aladdin shirt and holding a ping-pong paddle.
“Who are you?” The boy asked.
Michael laughed and put down the little girl on the couch in front of the TV playing The Ling King. A meerkat and a warthog were singing “Hakuna Matada” and proclaiming to the room not to worry, for the rest of your life. Strange advice for the moment.
“Jack, this is Ben, a good friend of Mom’s. He stopped by with dinner.”
“Oh,” Jack said as he ran out of the room. I knew why Theresa’s mom and Michael so ferociously protected the situation. I felt bad for coming.
“She’s upstairs.” Michael motioned for me to follow.
With each step toward the next level of this home, I felt like I could cry. I swallowed, took a deep breath, and stepped to the second level. I followed Michael to a room with a closed door. He opened the door and stepped aside. Theresa was sleeping with a rosary in her hand, her body thinner than I had ever seen it. Her hair looked dark and curly against the pillow. Around her neck were several chains, anchored down by medallions of saints, many hopeful pieces of metal dangling against her heart.
Michael touched Theresa’s arm. “Hey, hon. You’ll never believe who’s here. Ben Keller. He brought dinner.”
Theresa’s eyes popped open, and she smiled immediately. She took a moment to take in what Michael had just said, then tried to adjust herself to sit up as Michael helped her. “Ben, you brought me my macro McMeal? That’s too funny. Doesn’t it smell nasty?”
“Well, actually, I ate half a container at a red light. Sorry about that.”
Theresa laughed, tears gleaming in her eyes. Michael stood in the doorway, removed but present as we talked. Theresa sat up. “I know you’re lying. Are your renovations done yet? I bet your Vanity Insanity looks amazing.”
“Oh, we’re taking a little break.” I tried to think of something funny to say, the tears in my throat were starting to burn. My toothache was my saving grace as I concentrated on the pain to avoid tears from coming to my eyes.
“Hey, did Jenae ever get her naval pierced?” Theresa asked me.
Jenae had her naval pierced last spring. “Yeah, she’s looking for other parts to pierce.” A child cried from a room nearby. I could hear muffled sounds of Theresa’s mother comforting voice muffled through the wall.
Michael cleared his throat. “Ben, Subby Mangiamelli stopped by yesterday to replace the mirror on the vanity. Looks good as new, right, hon?”
“It looks awesome.” Theresa sounded drained as she smiled and looked toward the vanity. “Good as new.” I remembered the vanity when it had been in Lucy’s trunk years ago. “Hey, Ben, we have to figure out what my new hairstyle will be when this mop grows out.” Theresa’s words were starting to slur as she spoke.
“I’ll check my schedule. ‘I might be too busy counting me holy cards, Danny.’”
Theresa closed her eyes.
Michael came toward the bed. “Did you catch that, hon. Caddyshack, right, Ben?”
“Sounds like Caddyshack. Easy…” Theresa looked up at me. “So good to see you, Ben.”
“Yep, see you later, Theresa.”
“See you later.” She moved her head toward the window and closed her eyes.
I moved much more quickly down the stairs, stepping on a squeak toy at the bottom. I needed to get out of the house.
“Hey, thanks,” I said to Michael and Mary as I moved to the front door.
“Anytime,” Michael lied. “You’re the one who’s helping us out. Thanks for dropping off dinner.”
“Anytime,” I lied.
By the time I got to the car, I turned on the engine, and Sting’s voice played from my CD player. The song “Let Your Soul Be Your Pilot” took over the car. Sting, my constant sage, who had laced the years of my life with background music, found me in my pain. I drove the car to the next block and pulled over. My head hurt. My tooth hurt. I took a deep breath.
When the doctors failed to heal you
When no medicine chest can make you well
When no counsel leads to comfort
When there are no more lies they can tell
No more useless information
And the compass spins
The compass spins between heaven and hell
Let your soul be your pilot
Let your soul guide you
He’ll guide you well
Theresa received the last rites three times in the next week and a half. She died in her sleep on November 2, a day after All Saints Day.
The storm of 1997.
Untimely and ruthless.
39
Theresa’s Funeral: No Morning Appointments
Wednesday, November 5
1997
This time Jenae’s note posted on the door to Vanity Insanity looked as though an angry child had scribbled it:
We are closed this morning to attend the funeral for our dear friend Theresa.
We are so sad due to our loss.
“Can we at least try to sit together?” Virginia put some lipstick on as she shut a drawer in her station with her hip.
“We look for each other,” Kelly said, “try to save places. If not, we meet at the lunch.”
We all met at Vanity Insanity that morning and agreed to get back for a few late appointments after the lunch. Caroline was able to find a sitter for Connor, and Toby and Patti had called all morning appointments to reschedule. Jenae was tying her head into a tight bun at the mirror at her station. She wore a navy dress with a string of pearls.
“I’ve never been to this church. Can I catch a ride?” she said to anyone who could hear.
The staff walked out the back side of the salon, and I followed and locked the door. I put the keys in my pocket and felt the rosary I had put in there following the Rosary visitation the evening before, a ros
ary that had been given to me by a lovely lady years ago. I looked over to my parking spot and saw A.C. with no coat, wearing dark sunglasses, leaning against my car. “Mind if we go together?”
“Hop in.” The pain in the entire left side of my mouth had been so bad the last several days that I’d lost count of how many Tylenol I had taken. The less said, the less pain, so I hadn’t said much since Theresa died. A.C. got in the passenger’s side of the car, put his seat belt on, and turned on the radio.
The Spice Girls were screaming about what they really, really wanted.
A.C. turned the station.
A high-pitched woman’s voice called out to her Ken that she was his Barbie girl in her world.
A.C. turned off the radio. A.C. turned on the radio.
Barbie Girl.
Spice Girls.
A.C. turned off the radio. “Dumb songs,” he mumbled.
I drove several blocks out of the Old Market before it occurred to me that Toby and Jenae were driving together to the church. Years and years of their childish tension had so subtly and quietly waned that I couldn’t remember the last time those two had bickered or exchanged insults.
Theresa’s funeral at Saint Pius X was on one of the dreariest fall mornings that I can remember. The cloudy sky hovered over a cold morning as we drove onto the blacktop parking lot, which was already packed forty minutes before the funeral was to start. Storm-whipped, distressed trees sagged as they wrapped the landscape of the big box church that I hadn’t seen in ages. A big tree lay on the side of the parking lot, its roots pulled out of the ground from the weight of the ice during the storm. The tree was now dead. Dead too young, way too young. My mouth throbbed.
I looked at the school and church and paused. Saint Pius X looked beautiful. I had heard about a few renovations through the years, but I had not been back here since A.C. and I moved the free pews to Vanity Insanity over a decade ago. In the midst of sadness and broken trees, I stood in awe of the changes made to the building in which I attended CCD classes and the church where I served Mass with a kid whose name I couldn’t recall. Saint Pius look different; it looked beautiful.
A.C. nudged me. “Let’s do this.”
Clumps of people stood quiet and serious, debating whether they should enter the church for the funeral or run to their cars and leave. Shocked expressions covered faces that would not look at each other. Had Theresa really died? Clumps of zombies slowly moved toward the door with A.C. and me.
Just inside the doorway in the hallway that wrapped around the church were two easels with large poster boards, each covered with a collage of pictures of Theresa throughout her life. Several grieving zombies stood in front staring at the pictures. Who were these people? A.C. and I moved toward one poster and looked at the biggest picture in the center of the collage. The eight-by-ten photo showed a beautiful little girl missing a front tooth with long, caramel-colored hair, shining with the glow of several months swimming at a pool. A picture of Theresa and Michael at her wedding was to the left of the center picture. A picture of Theresa without her wig holding Mary Elizabeth was to the right. I could see that the collage was not in any order, as though somebody had thrown the pictures of her life against the board, knowing that the different and mixed pieces would make sense to those who knew her. A black-and-white picture of three little girls in uniforms caught my eye. Marty, Lucy, and Theresa had their arms around each other, standing in front of a school gym. They couldn’t have been more than ten.
In the lower right corner of the poster board was a blurry photo of a large group of people in the front of the Mangiamelli house on Maple Crest Circle. I bent down and took a closer look at the poorly taken photo of the prom of 1981. Satch, the tree, towered over the group. Everyone in the picture squinted as the wind blew hair and dresses. I found myself in the photo standing next to Theresa in her cream dress. My face was a blur since I had moved quickly, turning to look toward the house of the Wicker Witch just as the photo was snapped. There I was, thrown on the board, fortunate to have been a little, blurry piece of the life of such an awesome woman.
“What a beauty.” A.C. shook his head and took a breath.
More zombies stood behind us, so we moved to the side to let them see Theresa through the years, Theresa when she’d lived. As I moved, I bumped into a body leaning against the wall. Will Mangiamelli barely noticed.
“Will.” My voiced sounded odd.
Will looked at me with red, panicked eyes. “Ben? A.C.?” He didn’t look too good.
A.C. walked around to the other side of Will and nudged him. “Come on, let’s go sit down.” A.C. and I anchored Will between us as we walked to a pew near the back of the church and sat. I hadn’t seen anyone from Vanity Insanity yet. A.C. leaned in front of Will and looked at me. I looked at him with burrowed brows and shook my head. He moved his head toward the end of the pew. Corky Payne was sitting with his head down. Why was he here? His long, gray hair and beard stuck out in all directions. He wore an old brown suit that looked like it had been crumpled in the back corner of a closet and pulled out for today. His posture showed the pain he had been carrying, his lifelong suffering upon the death of a boy born on my birthday. I didn’t want to add to that pain. I positioned myself through the funeral so that he might not see me. A.C. moved to shield me from Corky Payne’s vision.
I looked around for any sign of the staff. The church was filling up, and I knew the chances of sitting together were slim. A few rows ahead of me were three rows filled with students from the school. Lucy had told me that Theresa’s oldest son was in the second or third grade at Saint Pius. Jack’s classmates sat with teachers on the ends of the pews, glancing down the rows for any sign of misbehavior. The uniforms were different from the ones I remembered students wearing when I was young. No longer pee yellow or poop brown; the blue and red jumpers on the girls weren’t hideous.
The funeral Mass moved like a bad dream. The voice of the priest was monotone and quiet, and I found myself looking around at the people who had known Theresa and had come to say good-bye. My eyes moved from the people to the casket near the altar. People, the casket. People, the casket, closed and cold. I spotted Jenae and Toby across the aisle and a few rows back. Toby kept looking at the back door. Jenae was crying. What I can’t recall to this day is if any music was played at Theresa’s funeral. I don’t remember the music.
Several rows ahead of me stood a very tall man with a beer belly and really short hair. He had to be at least six feet five. He bent his head over during most of the service, visibly sobbing. The altar was covered with a flock of smocked priests. The priests I recognized looked old and tired. Not-as-Big-as-He-Used-to-Be Father Laverty, Used-to-Be-Young Father Gusweiler, Even-Older-Fart Father Dailey and Still-Cool Father Whelan, who always remembered my name, who always smoked so coolly, who never touched me inappropriately. Father Whelan had an oxygen tank at this side. A.C. leaned over to Will and me. “If a bomb went off, every priest in Omaha would be gone.”
The casket, cold and closed, was covered with red roses. Roses everywhere. If roses were answers to prayer, I wondered what prayer had been answered. An end to her suffering? An end to the army of cancer cells invading her body? Had the prayers of those who wanted her here for her children been heard? I heard the sniffling of adults crying all around me.
I spotted Caroline, Kelly, and Katie standing by the confessionals at the back of the church. I never did see Virginia and Patti. Across the aisle and three rows toward the altar was the Webber family. Hope with a doily on her head. Lovey and a man I assumed to be her brother, Robert. Next to Mrs. Webber was what looked like the back of Faith’s head. Long, black hair shone in the lights of the newly remodeled interior of the church. Was it really Faith?
Mac and my mother were sitting in front of the Webbers. I saw Subby and Michele Mangiamelli sitting in a pew with Lucy and Tom, Anthony, Stephano and his wife. Ava and Louis. I looked up to the altar and saw that one of the altar servers was a young girl. When
had they started allowing girls to be altar servers?
In the front row, I could see Michael and his children. Mrs. O’Brien was holding the baby next to him. They were listening to the sermon, which was given by a younger priest I didn’t recognize. I had never met Theresa’s father, but a man sitting next to Mrs. O’Brien took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien were burying their daughter today, something no parent should ever have to do. Grief and questions hung above them in the pew. Why take her so young? Why not us? I’m sure those same questions hung above Octavia as she buried her Teddy. Hadn’t Corky Payne asked those same questions every day of his life since Tommy died? Jane McManus, who was murdered near Ak-Sar-Ben twenty years ago, had parents who must have asked the same questions. The parent of Johnny Madlin, the father who forgave the murderer and the mother who didn’t, still asked those questions today. Why my child? Why not me?
Sitting directly behind Theresa’s parents was Mrs. O’Brien’s sister, Mrs. Morrow, the sister she resembled, my former neighbor. Mr. Morrow stood next to her. He looked different. He looked much older than the Mr. Morrow I remembered standing behind Stinky as he blew out his candles on his birthday cake. The perfect father. He looked older than the man sitting in a car down by the creek with the Morrows’ baby-sitter. Had Mr. Morrow ever confessed that sin to his wife as she still sat with him all these years later, both of them carrying that cross together? Or had he held that sin secret from her and carried both the sin and guilt as two large crosses alone to this day? Mr. Morrow looked different in the pew next to his wife, burying his niece. He looked older and not as perfect.
The pain in my mouth and the grief in my heart took a back seat to an anger that had been lurking in my heart for years, though I hadn’t felt angry until this moment. I looked at Mr. Morrow, who had changed a naïve teen that day by the creek. I guess I had allowed that change. The perfect father was not perfect. His sin had changed that, whether I was the only person who knew that along with him or not. Mr. Morrow had failed like so many other fathers. Like Eddie Krackenier’s father, who had failed and abandoned him, and like the “Father” Eddie had turned to after that. Had Willie Otey’s father failed him? Had Otey not had a man in his life to keep him from running from good and doing bad? Like the man who used to be married to my mother? The failure of fathers flooded my heart, and I felt an anger I never knew I had. I was angry.
Vanity Insanity Page 30
