Troubled waters, p.8
Troubled Waters, page 8
“What kind of funeral home makes you pay before you bury someone?” Macey grunted. “Can’t this be handled later?”
“I should’ve done it yesterday,” said Evelyn. She quickly wrote out a check. “No need to explain, Newt. It’s perfectly fine. You’ve been in business for decades, and it’s not because your family is a bunch of thieves.” She tore out the check and handed it to him with a smile.
Newt folded the check, sliding it into the front pocket of his suit jacket. “Thank you, Evelyn. It’s always uncomfortable to ask, but it has to be taken care of. Now, let’s go see Jess, shall we?”
———
“I’m sorry. I just . . . just can’t.” Macey stood in the doorway of the viewing room, her eyes glassy.
Evelyn turned to Newt, hoping to express her need for them to be alone without having to mention it. Newt graciously backed out of the room without a sound.
“Dear, I’m sorry,” Evelyn said.
“No, it’s not you.” Macey’s arms extended from her body as if keeping some unknown object away from her. “But I just can’t do it. I don’t like dead . . . I haven’t seen . . . and I don’t want my last image of him to be . . . because it’s been a long time, and . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she covered her mouth, shaking her head and still keeping her free hand extended in the air, making it difficult for Evelyn to decide if she needed to be hugged.
Evelyn finally approached, but instead of embracing her, she took her shoulder and guided her out of the room. The poor girl was shaking all over. “Sit down here and take a deep breath.”
Macey looked up with tears in her eyes as she mindlessly collapsed into the chair. “I’m sorry. I wanted to be here for you. I intended to be here for you.”
“Don’t say another word,” Evelyn said, patting her on the knee. “You don’t worry about a thing. I shouldn’t have asked, and I realize not everyone wants to see someone who’s dead.”
Macey’s hand swiped furiously at the tears that fell from her eyes. “You need closure. I understand that. Do you want me to go get Mr. Castles or something? Or call Margie or Patricia?”
“No, no. Don’t disturb them. I’ll be fine.” Evelyn’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the handles of her old leather handbag. “It’s just a body. He’s not there. He’s in heaven, probably shootin’ quail or something like that.”
That put a small smile on Macey’s face, though her eyes remained tearful. She’d found a box of Kleenex under her chair and was pulling tissues out one by one.
“Go get yourself some air, if you can in this heat. I thought I saw a pop machine in one of the offices. I’ll just be a minute or two.”
Macey nodded and stood, started walking down the hallway, clutching the box of tissue, staring absently at the wall as she passed by. Evelyn waited till she was out of sight and then opened the door to the room again.
The lighting was dim and focused, the casket set up against the far wall, surrounded by silk flowers. Evelyn batted at a fly that had followed her in. Her legs felt weak as she approached the casket. His face, pale and somber, looked peaceful enough. She wondered if he was comfortable. He never liked to sleep on his back. Her head shook at the absurd thought.
He’d lost so much weight during the chemotherapy that he hardly resembled himself. His cheeks were sunken and his forehead and chin protruded unnaturally. Still, his eyes, though closed now, kept him familiar and warm.
A small speck of dust on the shoulder of his suit distracted Evelyn and she flicked it off, then creased the collar and smoothed the material. They’d parted his hair on the wrong side, so she found a small comb in her purse and corrected it, an easy task considering there wasn’t much there.
As she’d requested, his old tattered Bible lay next to him, along with some memorabilia from the Masons’ Lodge and his favorite handkerchief his mother had made him.
Evelyn was hardly aware of her tears. She was more in awe that this would be the last time she’d ever touch him, ever look at his face, ever hold his hand on this earth. He was cold, but it didn’t matter too much. His hands had always been cold because of poor circulation.
Poignant and poetic she wasn’t, although she wished she had something elegant to say. Instead, her throat was swollen with disbelief and sadness, so anything she wanted to recite would never make it out anyhow.
Her eyes rested on the Bible next to his body. How he’d combed through its pages year after year. He loved the Word and devoured it like it was a meal. A righteous man, he’d always believed in following God’s law with absolute strictness. Evelyn had tried her hardest and best to do the same. But she never did it like he did. No one did.
But it had been that very Bible, that very law, that had torn him from his daughter all those years before. If he could have only . . . Evelyn shook her head. She couldn’t ask him to be less than who he was. She’d always relied on God to make things right. Tears welled in her eyes as she thought about how God hadn’t made it right. Here she stood over his casket, their daughter not able to stand by her side, all because God hadn’t made it right.
Sorrow seized her heart, and she turned and wept into the tissue she’d stuffed into her pocket. God knew she wasn’t strong enough to make things right, or to know what to do, or to mend the wounds. She was a simple woman, with a simple heart and a simple way of life. The complexities of the heart were matters she could not pretend to know how to solve.
Evelyn glanced over to Jess again, and suddenly her heart burned with anger that God had not taken her first. God had made her stay. Why? What good could she do without Jess? He was what she had lived for and worked for, had loved for. Could there be any good reason at all for her life to go on without him?
Evelyn found a small chair in the corner. She sat down, her legs tired, her body aching. She could still see Jess, but just barely. His strong Roman nose and the top of his brow were all that were visible.
Fifteen minutes passed while Evelyn sat in the chair, almost as lifeless as her husband. The tiny black, dimly lit room brought her some comfort. The walls were close and secure. Anything beyond the door was unknown and dangerous. She’d closed her eyes and maybe even dozed off for a bit, her head resting comfortably against the wall the chair sat against.
Before long she was aware of faint voices and knew that people were beginning to arrive. She still sat in the small chair for a few moments longer, her purse on her lap, her hands folded against her chest.
But the voices grew louder and so, after a few attempts, she stood. She put her purse on the chair and opened it, pulling out an envelope. She glanced to the door to make sure no one was about to come in. Then she walked back over to Jess, patted his hands, smoothed his hair one more time, and adjusted his tie to perfection.
“I never sent it,” she said softly, the envelope damp with the perspiration from her hands. “I wanted to. I wanted to make things right. I stood there in front of the post office and thought hard about sending it to you. I imagined your face as you read the letter. I knew these words would be the ones you’d longed to hear all these years. You never said so, but I knew. I sometimes would watch you from the top of the stairs, when you didn’t know I was there. I’d watch you stop by the mantel and look at her picture. Sometimes you’d look at it for a long time.
“I never will understand all this. I suppose the good Lord will show me someday. But mostly, I’m sad that you died and never got to see her again. She’s beautiful. A real lady. And smart, too. Just like you’d expect.” Evelyn’s chin quivered but she maintained herself for a moment longer. She slipped the envelope into the inside pocket of his suit and stepped back from the casket. “So there. You can read it if you want to up there in heaven. They’re not her words. They’re mine. Maybe I should’ve sent it, I don’t know. But I didn’t and that’s that.”
Evelyn stood silent, then, and held her husband’s hand as tightly as she could. She didn’t ever want to forget what this felt like. She wanted to mention how much she would miss him, how she hoped they had the good kind of fried chicken up there, and to ask the Lord to take her home soon, but she suddenly had the realization that she was in the room by herself. Alone. So she squeezed his hand, picked the last speck of dust off his coat, and turned toward the door.
At the door, she stopped herself, dug through her purse and found what she was looking for. She walked back to the casket. Opening her husband’s hand, she carefully placed the gold necklace with the little gold cross into his palm and folded his fingers around it. Then, for some reason she didn’t know, she took the envelope out of his pocket and stuffed it back into her purse. She moved back to the door in silence.
Turning around once more, she managed to whisper good-bye and then quietly shut the door behind her.
Eight
Macey shifted her weight in the rusty steel chair, slowly and carefully, so as not to draw attention to herself or cause the old thing to collapse. A south wind picked up a little, cooling her off. Even though a large elm tree nearly shaded them all from the sun, the humidity was rising quickly, and everyone in their black dresses and dark suits was beginning to perspire noticeably. All the elderly women were fanning themselves, the men blotting their foreheads. The only person who didn’t seem to care or felt it inappropriate to do so was Pastor Lyle, who was reading faithfully from his little black funeral book a psalm she didn’t recognize. It was apparently her father’s favorite, something about mercy and forgiveness.
The funeral had been hard. Her mother had wept, and Macey comforted her the best she could. Men stood up and spoke of her father in a way one might speak of a saint, calling him “good and decent,” “a man of God,” “stoic,” and “compassionate,” of all things. By the time the service ended, her jaw muscle ached like she’d chewed a hundred pieces of gum.
Her uncle Howard, who sat next to her during the funeral, had smiled and told her it was good to see her, but nothing more was said, and the greeting could’ve fit a complete stranger. He wasn’t cold, just indifferent. But then again, so was she. She’d smiled and echoed his words back to him. In one sense, she had hoped things would be different. Maybe relationships could be mended. But much more of her wanted pleasantries to be pleasantries and to remain in the same obscurity she’d been caught in for the last seventeen years. While staring at her father’s casket, she wondered who knew what. Had her father told anyone what really happened? Or had he lied to cover up the dark family secret? If she had to guess, no one asked and he never explained. That was the way things were done.
Now at the graveside, Macey could see the solemn faces of those who had been close to her father gathered around the casket, their eyes teary. She tried not to stare. She should have been weeping and mourning. But instead she just sat there, careful not to make her chair creak, careful not to do anything but sit.
So this was it. This was the day her father would become “ashes to ashes and dust to dust.” As Pastor Lyle rambled on about God’s love and Jesus’ sacrifice, Macey imagined the casket being lowered into the ground, a small shovel thrusting handfuls of dirt into the hole in steady rhythm. The distinct thump of the dirt hitting the top of the casket pulsed with her heart, and she closed her eyes in hopes of ridding herself of the sound. But the thumping continued, only it grew softer, more muffled. In her mind’s eye she suddenly realized the person she saw in the casket wasn’t her father, it was herself. The box was cold and black, and it wasn’t the dirt falling onto the casket that made the thumping noise but her fists pounding against the walls, hard and fast. And she couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream. Her voice had been silenced, as it had been all the years before. Her fists pounded harder, trying to let someone know she wasn’t dead but was alive, breathing and awake.
Then the air left, and her mind swirled with dizziness. Her hands were no longer curled into fists; they now scratched lightly at the side of the casket. With her last breath she wondered why everyone thought she was dead. Why was she in a casket? Why was she being buried?
“Amen,” the small crowd said in unison, and Macey opened her eyes. There in front of her was the ongoing graveside service, and before she could think about anything else, her mother was standing. So Macey stood, too.
Evelyn approached the casket and placed the white rose she had in her hand on top of it, and Macey followed instinctively, placing her rose carefully next to her mother’s. She helped Evelyn back to her chair as the rest of the crowd took the roses in their hands and set them on the casket, as well. Macey suddenly felt very tired. Her eyes closed and opened with great effort. It was as if she were in a dream, watching the scene from afar. Was it really that different, after all? She’d placed a rose on top of the casket as a gesture of love for a man she never understood. They’d talked of him as if he was a hero of the faith. Was this the same man whose cold eyes had pierced her fragile heart? The same who had told her she’d done the unforgivable? This man?
The service ended, and Macey found herself standing next to her mother, greeting a small line of people. They hugged Evelyn but simply patted Macey on the shoulder or cocked their heads to the side and smiled with pity. She supposed she wasn’t very approachable, and no one could figure out what to do with her.
She was surprised when suddenly two firm hands grabbed her shoulders and pulled her close. It was only after they let go that Macey realized it was Patricia. She couldn’t help but sigh in relief and smile. At least someone cared enough to embrace her.
The crowd had begun strolling back through the cemetery to their cars. Her mother was talking to some old woman a few feet away who’d apparently lost her husband a few months before and had taken up bird watching to pass the time. Macey turned back to Patricia.
“Honey, you okay?” Patricia’s intense brown eyes matched Macey’s.
“Sure.” Macey glanced away, looking at nothing in particular.
“You look me in the eyes and tell me that,” Patricia instructed, but Macey knew that wasn’t going to be possible, so she stayed silent and stared at the flowers lying on the casket. For being such a petite woman, Patricia had quite a bit of muscle and guided Macey away from everyone as if she were a feather. “Now listen. I’m going to take your mom back to the house for the reception. Why don’t you take a few moments here by yourself.”
Macey’s eyes began to fill with tears, though she successfully willed them to stop. “Why would you think I need some time alone here?” She glanced at her mom. “Mom’s going to need some help back at the house. You know how she frets.”
Patricia gently punched the bottom of Macey’s chin, like a trainer might do to a boxer. “Hey, I ain’t no spring rooster. There may be this certain way things are done, and certain things that are said and not said, but that doesn’t mean that that’s the way it should be.” Patricia’s firm smile and pointed eyebrows gave the pause a mark of emphasis. “So what I’m sayin’ to you is that you need to take some time here for yourself, away from everybody who’s just following all the etiquette. Get what I’m trying to tell you?”
Macey frowned and tried to decipher the message. Was she saying what she thought she was saying? With Patricia it was a little hard to tell. “Are you sure you don’t mind taking Mom back?”
“We’ll be fine. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to miss the beginning crowd. When the food’s gone, so are most of the people, if you catch my draft.”
Macey nodded and smiled. She didn’t realize the tears were falling until one curved around her nose and fell into her mouth. She quickly wiped them away and composed herself. “Okay,” she said.
“Okay then.” Patricia gave her one more strong pat on the shoulder, then turned and found Evelyn, guiding her to the car and explaining along the way. Macey turned away so she wouldn’t catch anyone’s eyes, and before long all the cars were gone and she was left alone in the cemetery with a shiny casket and two creaky chairs. She looked around, thinking maybe somebody would be by soon to lower the casket or take the chairs, but no one was in sight.
The cemetery was huge, extending several acres in every direction. She imagined everyone who had ever lived even near Chanute was buried here. Toward the west, the gravestones looked older, while toward the east the plots were obviously newer. Macey looked down and realized she must be standing on the plot reserved for her mother. Then she noticed the two headstones of her grandparents on her mother’s side. Her grandfather had died a few weeks before she was born, and her grandmother when she was two. She had no memory of either of them, but they were kept alive by her mother, who reminisced as if they’d never passed away.
She focused on the two headstones on the other side of the casket, where her father’s parents were buried. Her grandmother had died of cancer even before her mother and father married, when her dad was twenty. She remembered her grandfather, though. Grandpa Porter. He was a very tall, skinny man who loved horses and hated cats. He’d died tragically in a train accident near Chicago, one of his only trips outside of Kansas, when Macey was ten.
She’d attended the funeral at the church but wasn’t permitted to go to the graveside. She remembered her aunt Barb remarking she’d be too fidgety. So she stayed behind and played near the church with the other children until the reception, where her mother had been horrified at how dirty her dress was.
A low-lying cloud passed slowly in front of the sun, giving some temporary relief from the heat. She’d been breathing shallowly, she discovered, so she took in a deep breath and blew the air out toward her forehead.
She almost had to laugh at the absurdity of her standing here in the middle of a cemetery, making peace with a casket. Even in the daylight she didn’t relish the idea of being in a cemetery alone. The cloud that a moment ago had provided her precious shade now moved on, and the sun began scorching her skin again.
