Twenty Three
B.D.
I walked over to David’s house because Veronica had to go to work. I texted Mom to explain the situation. She texted back saying she would stop by Food Food and get a casserole, because funerals meant casserole--at least in Texas.
David’s Mom let me in, and I saw immediately why David had wanted me to come over. Candi was far more upset than most people were when their ex-husband died. She looked worse than I had ever seen her look. Her hair, usually in some elegant chignon or other coiffure, was tied up in a messy bun. She was wearing her version of lounge wear—gray yoga pants, a white Henley, and a flannel shirt. She looked like a grunge band groupie. Of course, she had on no make-up, her nose was red and puffy, and her eyes were bloodshot. Her favorite chair was surrounded by a halo of used tissues. Immediately I set to work.
First I focused on Candi. “Do you want some tea or coffee? Maybe some toast?”
She looked confused for a second then replied, “Tea and toast sounds good.”
I was pretty sure she hadn’t eaten yet that day. I put the kettle on and put a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster. I found a trash bag and picked up the tissues and put a new box out. I slathered butter on the toast, poured the tea in a cup, put the whole thing on a tray, and set it on the coffee table in front of her chair. I settled into the couch across from her when my phone rang. It was David.
“My flight’s about to take off so I’ve got to talk fast. It’s United flight 3225. It’s supposed to get in at 2:10. Do you think you could pick me up?”
“Of course.”
“Great, the flight attendant is giving me a dirty look. I’ve got to go.”
“See you soon,” I yelled—for some reason—into the phone as it clicked off.
“It was David,” I explained to Candi. “He should be in at around 2. I’ll get him.”
She nodded. “Good, good.”
“You should have some tea. It’s Earl Grey. Do you want sugar or milk?”
She stared at the tea cup I motioned toward then shook her head. “No, it’s fine like this.” She picked it up and took a sip.
“I just put butter on the toast. Do you want jelly?”
Once again, she stared at the toast. “No, butter’s fine.” She put down the tea and absentmindedly took a bite of toast. She stared off into space as she chewed. I watched her as she took slow, careful bite after slow careful bite, but eventual managed to finish a piece of toast. She wiped her mouth with her napkin and picked up the tea. I sat awkwardly on the couch unsure of what to do. The door bell rang.
“I’ll get it.” I jumped up to answer the door, relieved to have something to do.
A delivery guy with a giant vase of pink flowers stood on the porch.
“Oh, these are lovely.”
“Sure,” he replied a bit callously. “Sign here.” I signed and took the flowers.
“Look what came!” I exclaimed. “They’re beautiful. Do you want to see who they’re from?”
I set them down on the sofa table behind the couch and grabbed the card. “Sorry for your loss. Clive Cook.”
She nodded. “My boss,” she explained.
“They smell lovely.” I took a sniff. They were spicy and rosy simultaneously.
“Sure,” she answered.
“Want to smell them?” I asked.
“No,” she shook her head.
“Should I make you a sandwich or something?”
“No, I’m good,” she answered with a shiver.
I picked up a throw and held it up. She nodded yes, so I draped it over her lap. She took another sip of tea and the doorbell rang again.
This time a prim older woman in a navy suit holding a folder stood on the porch. “I’m Mrs. Hunter—Mr. Slade’s assistant.“
“Oh, I’m B.D.” I stuck out my hand. “A friend of the family.” I stepped aside so that she could come in.
“Mrs. Slade, I’m sorry for your loss” commiserated Mrs. Hunter.
Candi answered, “and yours.”
“Yes, we’ll all miss him. He was quite the fire cracker. I didn’t think I would outlive him though.”
They both instinctively bowed their heads.
“I hate to bother you at this difficult time Mrs. Slade, but as next of kin, you need to sign some papers. And the funeral home would like to meet with you tomorrow to finalize a few things. Since he knew he was dying, Mr. Slade took care of most of the arrangements in advance, but a few things must wait until the time.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be up for meeting with the funeral home tomorrow.”
“Can someone go for you?” she asked solicitously.
“David, I’ll get David to do it.”
“Excellent. I prepared a limited power of attorney just in case.” She sat on the couch with her folder and pulled out a paper and a pen. She filled out something on the paper. Then she began handing the papers to Candi to sign explaining each one as she did so. Clearly this woman was a professional. Candi dutifully signed each one as indicated. As she was signing the bell rang again. This time a tall beautiful woman dressed in a killer sweater stood on the porch. She held a plastic bag that smelled like really good barbecue.
“Hi! I’m Victoria, Candi’s friend. I just came by with some food,” she held up the bag, “and to check on her.”
I grabbed Victoria’s arm. “Thank god you’re here. Things aren’t going well, and I’ve got to pick up David in a few hours.”
“Don’t worry—I’ll take care of it.” She patted my arm.
“Let’s set the food up in the breakfast nook,” I suggested. Victoria walked over to the breakfast nook, while Mrs. Hunter was finishing up.
“Thanks dear,” she said while patting Candi on the back. “Now Mr. Raintree is the executor of Mr. Slade’s will and he’ll handle most of the funeral preparations. Mr. Slade had most of it planned. Reverend Thalmud will do the service at the First Episcopal Church. Mr. Slade made a big donation in advance. Cook-Walden will handle the body. You may be called on to make a few decisions regarding music etc. And we thought someone from the family could deliver a eulogy. T. Boone Pickens and George W. Bush are speaking, but Mr. Slade wrote a eulogy that we thought someone from the family could deliver. Of course you can make any changes you want.”
“I’m sure David will do it,” Candi answered dully.
“I’ll leave it here,” said Mrs. Hunter while putting a piece of paper on the coffee table. I showed her to the door.
“You’re a good family friend,” she told me while walking out the door.
Back in the living room, Victoria had managed to get Candi to the table. I took a moment to call Veronica. We arranged for her to get me at her 1pm lunch break and then I would drop her back off at work and go get David.
*
I waited in the cell phone lot for fifteen minutes before David texted me that he was on the ground. His flight must have been a bit delayed. I drove around and picked him up. Before I could drive away, he grabbed my face in his hands and gave me a deep, toe-curling kiss.
“I missed you,” he said vehemently.
“I missed you too,” I answered.
As I drove home, he asked, “How’s Mom?”
“She’s been better, but coping. She’s already signed some papers and volunteered you for stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Meeting with the funeral home and speaking at the funeral,” I said like it was no big deal.
“Speaking at the funeral?”
“Yep, well, giving the eulogy, but don’t worry. He already wrote one. You only have to read it, but Mrs. Hunter said you could change what you wanted.”
“Mrs. Hunter is still kicking around?” David asked.
“Pretty efficiently too.”
“She was always like that. I think I’ve actually spent more time with her than my father. She came to my high school graduation.”
“Really?” I asked a bit skeptically.
He nodded. �
��And gave me $100 too. She just takes care of business. I guess she’ll retire now. I hope she moves to the beach or something. She deserves it. And the eulogy’s fine. Fine. What difference does it make? I just want to make this as easy on Mom as possible. Clearly she always thought they would get back together even though Dad never gave her a reason to think that.”
“I’m sure you’re better than your father deserves, ” I reassured David.
David snorted. “Maybe.”
*
When we arrived at David’s house, it looked like a party was going on. We had to park down the block. Inside Candi was sitting at the dining room table with an array of paperwork before her. A man dressed so sharply he could only be an attorney was explaining them. Candi was back to looking like herself in a gray sheath dress and navy short jacket. Her hair was pulled back in an elegant chignon, and she had a discreet whisper of make-up on. Clearly Victoria knew how to motivate.
Candi’s voice rang out like a bell, “David!”
David dropped his bag and embraced his mother as she rose from the table. She squeezed him as if he were a life jacket held by a ship wreck victim in the middle of an ocean storm. After several minutes she released him with a heavy sigh and a small, choked sob. He looked into her face and asked, “How are you holding up?”
His mother looked skyward. Tears were starting to come to the surface, “Oh, you know, well enough I suppose.” She discreetly swiped at her eyes with the tissue she had balled in her hand.
The man in the suit stepped up to David and stuck out his hand. David shook it. “Mr. Raintree.”
“David,” Mr. Raintree nodded while pumping David’s hand. “So glad you could get to Houston so quickly.”
“I’m here for my mother.”
“Of course. But while you’re here, could I get you to sign a few papers.”
“Me?” David asked pointing to his chest. “
“Yes, you. You’re named in the will and to get through probate, you’ll have to sign papers acknowledging your identity and that you are, in fact, Mr. Slade’s son.”
“Oh, okay, but I’m not even sure I want anything from him.”
“It’s not an insignificant bequest, but more importantly you’ll tie up probate for everyone else.”
Candi chided, “Don’t be difficult David. Just sign the papers.”
“Fine,” he agreed.
“Excellent,” responded Mr. Raintree sounding a bit too much like Mr. Burns from the Simpsons.
Mr. Raintree pulled out a stack of papers marked with pink, sticky-note flags and started indicating the places that David should sign. David leaned over the table and scrawled his name four or five times without even glancing at the documents. Then he picked up his bag and walked into the living room. Two more giant vases of flowers sat on the sofa table. Victoria and two other tall, unbelievably attractive women sat on the couch with glasses of white wine talking in low tones. A very muscular man wearing too much jewelry and hair gel picked at the barbecue spread out on butcher paper on the breakfast table.
“Let me stash this, and I’ll come back and introduce you,” David gestured towards his bag and then headed towards his room.
Of course, the doorbell rang, so I answered. It was my mom carrying a giant casserole dish and a grocery sack. She was dressed in some kind of denim, adult pinafore appliqued with flowers and bees. Compared to the women in the living room, she looked maximally frumpy.
“Mom, come in.” I waved her in and gestured toward the breakfast nook. “Candi’s signing some papers for Mr. Slade’s lawyer, but she should be done soon,” I explained. She arranged the casserole—mac and cheese--as well as paper plates, napkins, and plastic flatware on the table. As soon as she pulled out the plates, hair gel guy seized one and started loading it with barbecue. I set-up bottles of soda with cups and ice on the kitchen counter and set out cups and saucers next to the coffee machine. I then started a pot of coffee. David came into the kitchen and gave me a quick hug and kiss.
“Mom’s not going to love the paper plates, but if as many people come as I think, we’ll need them. We don’t own that many plates.” The doorbell rang.
“Let me get it,” offered David since I was still making coffee. He returned escorting an attractive small man in a beautiful suit and floral tie. He was carrying a giant vase of white gladiolas and a Rudy’s bag.
Mom stepped up and grabbed the Rudy’s bag, “I’ll take that.”
“Thanks,” replied the man as he moved over a mixed bouquet.
Mom unpacked the Rudy’s bag which held a rack of ribs and several pounds of brisket wrapped in butcher paper. She shook her head and started opening cabinets until she found several platters. We consolidated the barbecue on the platters making a platter of brisket, one of ribs, and one of poultry. We gathered the bread together in a basket and dumped a fruit salad in a bowl. Then Mom angled the mac and cheese and put a spoon in it. “I got it at Costco,” she explained. Once everything looked neat, we went back to David.
He introduced us to the small man with the gladiolas. “Dot, B.D. this is Fabio. He’s the window designer at Neimans.”
“Fabio, this is Dot and B.D, my girlfriend,” he gestured toward Mom and me.
We shook hands then David walked us over to the beautiful women, “This Chelsea, Stephanie, and of course, Victoria. They work with Mom.”
“This is Dot and B.D., my girlfriend.” The women were suddenly very interested in me.
“Really!” exclaimed Stephanie. “Where did you two meet?”
“School, we’re both physics majors,” I explained. The doorbell rang and David looked a bit perturbed. He headed for the door. He came back with a tall man who immediately started talking to the women and Fabio.
The doorbell rang again beginning what would become an onslaught of people dropping off food or flowers and coming in to offer condolences. Mom, David, and I basically managed traffic. David answered the door while Mom and I managed the stuff. I took the flowers and started arranging them on the dining room table, while Mom took the food and added it to the spread in the breakfast nook.
Candi became ensconced in her favorite chair graciously accepting condolences. Over the next three hours close to one hundred people cycled through the house leaving food and flowers, eating food, and telling Candi how sorry they were for her loss. Most of them were work colleagues making the living room look like a Vogue editorial meeting, but some neighbors and regular community acquaintances stopped by too.
By evening Mom packed up the kitchen and headed home after talking to Candi briefly. I said I would follow in a bit. David and I escaped to his room where we had slow, careful, quiet sex, and he drifted off to sleep. I quietly snuck out and drove home where I, too, fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.
David
The next few days were a whirlwind of funeral planning and small talk. I picked the coffin, the tombstone, the music, and bible verses. The funeral director and I organized the speakers, decided where flowers would go, and planned the service. Fabio helped me find an appropriate black Ungaro suit on clearance and a beautiful, black dress from the sample closet for B.D. We put a rush on the alteration. Mostly I took care of my mom. Who knew that she’d be so upset by the death of the jerk who was my father? Every morning I got up, made coffee, and got my mother out of bed. Her eyes were red-rimmed like she had cried all night. I got her to eat some eggs and put on some clothes. Mid-morning Victoria would turn up and start to work with Mom, and B.D. and I would run funeral errands. By the time we got home, Mom would look like a beautiful, grieving widow and the house would be full.
On Thursday we had the funeral at First Episcopal Church. I did meet the former president of the United States who briefly spoke about the mark my father had made on the world through his humanitarian work. Not really what I associated with him. T. Boone Pickens spoke longer about how he changed the oil industry, and I gave the official eulogy. The one he wrote started like a typical eulogy, but morphed
into an apology to me for the crappy father he had been. He admitted he was too weak to do the right thing, and he told me to be strong even if it cost me. I re-wrote it to be less damning. It would have sounded horrible coming from me. At the end we drove to the cemetery and chucked the jerk into the ground. Two and Three with offspring in tow looked beautiful, tragic, and a little miffed that they had been marginalized. I ignored them. Mom cried like the world was ending. Not beautiful, tragic crying either, but rather ugly, red, flat-out balling. I tried to offer comfort, but she was inconsolable. When it was over, we went home and crashed in our respective bedrooms. The next morning Mom got up, put on some comfy clothes, sat on the sofa eating barbecue and watching maudlin, lifetime movies—crying. I packed. School started Monday and I had already pushed back our before-the-semester staff meeting at the tutoring center to Sunday. It should be fine, but normally we started scheduling and preparing the week before.
Saturday morning, as we sipped tea and nibbled on the muffins I had made, Mom looked into my eyes and said, earnestly, “Don’t be like your father.”
“I’m trying my damnedest not to be,” I replied.
“No, that’s not what I mean. Don’t be afraid like your father. Don’t feel like you don’t deserve the best or that you don’t deserve to be happy. Be brave enough to grab the things that make you happy.”
“Okkaaayyy.”
“Seriously,” she grabbed my arm, “grab life. Don’t let other people or expectation, even your own, define you. Just grab on to what’s most precious to you and don’t let go. Look at B.D.’s father. Despite being in jail, he has a whole family who loves him, who can’t wait to get him back. Your father realized too late that you hang on to what’s important. He died regretting the lifetime he didn’t spend with me. Grab what counts and hang on.”
I looked back at her and nodded. “I will.”
“Promise, promise me you’ll do it.”
I took a deep breath, “I promise.”
Waves and Light: Opposites Attract Series Page 28
