A
Wedding and the Funeral
by
D.E. Fredd
The
Psychological Novel course met from nine
to eleven on Tuesdays and Thursdays during
the fall semester. I thought it would go
one of two ways--jammed to the rafters or
a half a dozen lost souls sitting in a circle
for two hours voicing specious insights
about Kafka and his ilk. Betting on the
former, I arrived thirty minutes early and
staked out a seat in the second row close
to the door. By five of nine the place was
packed, thirty-five or so psychology majors
and a scattering of literature students
like me. Just as class was about to start
the star forward of Drexel’s basketball
team strolled in trailing his cheerleader
posse which took up most of the front row,
the better for us mere mortals to admire
him. I was mulling over the idea of just
how many of the novels this future NBA second
round draft pick would ever read and which
of the three lovelies by his side looked
literate enough to write his papers for
him when an, “Excuse me, is that seat
taken?” interrupted my musing.
I
took my book bag off the seat, mumbled a
fake excuse that a girl had asked me to
save it for her, but she’d been gone
for over ten minutes so she was screwed.
He thanked me, sat down and, after settling
in, reached out and shook my hand, “Mark
Hanley, I had a course with Moravec two
years ago, Psychology and Art. He likes
it when there’s lots of discussion.”
I
introduced myself, telling Mark that this
was the start of my senior year. I’d
thought about psychology but was majoring
in comparative literature. Then Dr. Moravec
entered the room, all was silent and the
course began in earnest.
_______________
It
was a decent class. I wasn’t crazy
spending a week on James’ The Turn
of the Screw, but we moved on to Hardy and
some of the whacko Russians quickly enough.
The psychology majors dominated the class,
tossing out complexes and syndromes as if
there were no tomorrow. Mark was right up
there with respect to the diagnosis game
and case analysis. By the third week Moravec
actively looked for him when the discussion
flagged and was never disappointed by his
comments. “That’s an interesting
viewpoint, Mr. Hanley. Anyone else have
any thoughts on the matter?”
During
the ten minute breaks, Mark and I usually
made small talk. I’m not the chatty
type, but a few words about the Philadelphia
weather or the morning traffic on the Schuylkill
Expressway never hurt anyone. We did have
a few things in common. He’d spent
two years in the army and was now in the
National Guard. I was going through school
on an NROTC scholarship. He was applying
to graduate school for psychology; I was
sweating out my active duty placement.
On the down side, he had no interest in
sports and, since I was on the baseball
team, it would have been nice to parade
my modest accomplishments (.280 batting
average plus six outfield assists) before
an appreciative audience. He didn’t
care for literature either. He never had
time for novels although he had started
a Stephen King book on a plane trip a few
years ago. He appreciated my opinions about
the books on the syllabus, and a few times
he regurgitated those same ideas to the
class. “Interesting, very interesting”
were the Moravec accolades he received for
the contributions.
As
the course wound down and perhaps as a favor
for proofreading one of his papers (rife
with comma splices and run on sentences),
he invited me to lunch, his treat. We went
to Bartolo’s in South Philadelphia
and ordered cheese steaks fully loaded.
I, having just turned twenty one, had a
beer. Mark was a strict Baptist and didn’t
drink although he cavalierly stated he didn’t
care what others did. The conversation was
strained. We speculated about the final
exam. He delighted in the fact that he would
be graduating in January and have an entire
semester off until he began his Masters
at Temple University next fall. We exposed
a bit of our personal lives. He was twenty-four.
His real father had been killed in the first
Gulf War, and his mother had married again,
this time to a complete asshole. He’d
joined National Guard right out of high
school just to get away from the situation
and had been on his own ever since. His
family’s dysfunctionality had taken
its emotional toll. An army doctor recommended
therapy, and he’d kept up the weekly
sessions since leaving active duty. That’s
what made him major in psychology and get
into counseling. He could help with family
issues or depression because he’d
been there.
I
also admitted that I wasn’t much of
a family person. I was an only child, born
to a couple late in life and lost them both
during my high school years to different
types of cancer. At college I always spent
the holidays in my dorm or at the Willow
Grove Naval Air Station. I stayed in Philadelphia
during the summer to earn a few bucks when
I wasn’t off doing navy reserve stuff.
He brought up the topic of religion, and
I adroitly explained that I was to the far
left of Voltaire’s Deism (my standard
obtuse comment which no one ever understood,
including me). He let the subject drop but
not before saying his Baptist faith had
gotten him through difficult times and was
a continued source of strength. He knew
in his heart it would be that way for others.
Our
course ended in mid December. A few times
before the final he called to ask some basic
questions about the novels. I got the impression
he wanted to talk. After the exam we met
in the hall outside the room. He wanted
to do something to celebrate. “Maybe
we could go out for ice cream.” I
begged off saying I had other tests to cram
for. We shook hands and wished each other
luck. He may have asked god to bless me
as well.
_______________
I
had a busy spring semester. I finished my
classes and handed in a senior thesis in
mid May (Puzzlement and Pandemonium in Melville’s
Benito Cereno). Baseball was in full swing
(pun intended), and we were in the running
for a Division II playoff bid. I had picked
up a girl friend which is to say that during
March, April and May we kept each warm during
the weekends. She was a sophomore at Villanova
and in her glory planning a graduation party
for me after Memorial Day. In fact, when
the phone rang late Thursday night, I thought
it was her and answered with a rather clever,
scatological greeting which alluded to some
intriguing intimacies that occurred the
evening before.
It took me a few minutes to recognize Mark
Hanley’s voice. It began innocuously
enough. How was I doing? How was baseball?
Did I know what the navy had in store for
me when I got my commission? I gabbed away
in a guarded fashion because I knew there
was another shoe to drop. It finally did.
Mark had met a wonderful girl some months
ago. It was love at first sight. They were
going to be married on June 11th, over two
weeks away but he was in a bind. He needed
four ushers and someone he’d been
counting on had backed out at the last minute.
I was his last hope. The wedding was on
a Friday evening in Allentown, just a short
hour up the Pennsylvania Turnpike from Philadelphia.
I hemmed and hawed. I had a ball game on
Saturday (actually it was practice). I was
nearly broke (this was true). He countered
my arguments. It was a Baptist wedding which
was to say no booze so I’d be sober
as a judge the next day. The whole event
would be over by ten on Friday night so
I didn’t have to stay over and nobody
needed a tux, a dark suit would do.
He
was wearing me down. It was easier to agree
than to disappoint him. Then the idea dawned
on me that this wedding would be a perfect
opportunity to bring my new girl friend
to a cheap motel and have riotous sex Friday
afternoon, evening and Saturday morning
and get back to the city for the early afternoon
practice. I accepted.
I
spent the next hour on the phone with Natalie.
The sales job Mark used on me was not working
on her. She had an uncle’s birthday
bash to attend and a promise was a promise
in her family. I wondered if it was really
the prospect of sleeping with me for an
extended period that was the real deterrent.
We had engaged in the act before when a
location (the library stacks or her dorm
room with roommate seemingly asleep) became
available, but the prospect of tawdry romance
in a cheap motel in Allentown didn’t
sway her in the least. I begged. I pleaded.
I laid it all out there. I never would have
accepted the wedding responsibility if I’d
known she would not go. A Baptist wedding
was close to a wake with respect to enjoying
oneself. She was adamant. My tone became
a bit sharp; hers got sharper. She leveled
with me. Too much of our relationship was
based on sex. Whenever we went out, everything
seemed a precursor to the act. Why couldn’t
we just be together and share experiences
without ending up humping against a wall
somewhere.
“Okay,
the ‘against the wall’ thing
only happened once, and I distinctly remember
telling you that it was common practice
in London’s Whitechapel district during
the time of Dickens. It was more or less
research to see if it could be done and
we proved, to your intense satisfaction
I might add, that it could.”
“But
sex isn’t the only thing that’s
bothering me. The navy’s sending you
away to Wisconsin to study meteorology in
a few weeks, and you haven’t mentioned
what’s going to happen to our relationship
when you’re out there and I’m
still here. You make jokes when I bring
the subject up.”
“What
do you want to discuss?”
“I
guess I need to know if we have a future
together.”
“Are
you talking about an engagement?”
There
was silence on her end. So this was what
it was boiling down to. If I wanted to enjoy
myself at Mark Hanley’s wedding, I
had to ask Natalie Fisher to marry me, a
Claddagh ring at the very least. I’m
sure I’d have a great time that weekend
experiencing simultaneous orgasms by the
carload, but then, on the drive back Saturday
morning, the poultry would come home to
roost or some such aphorism. It might be
cheaper to hire an Allentown hooker for
the night than to submit to blackmail like
this.
“It’s
getting late Nat; I’ll give you a
call when I get back.”
“Don’t
bother, asshole; I’m through wasting
my time with you as long as I live.”
_______________
I
went to the wedding. I rented a car, beat
the Friday traffic out of Philadelphia by
leaving at three. By five I was safely ensconced
in a $49.95 a night motel room that probably
changed cooperate owners every six months
for tax purposes. I showered, spiders notwithstanding,
and looked terrific in my navy uniform replete
with a gold ensign bar. Since I brought
no sex partner with me, not a big deal,
I had seen plenty of movies where people
in the wedding party always paired off.
If there were four ushers there had to be
four bridesmaids. After the wedding meal
and all the diet cola anyone could drink,
I’d simply select a partner for the
evening, stop by the local package store
and wile away the evening as salaciously
as I could.
When
I got to the church early that evening,
I could see why Mark was desperate. His
side of the church was virtually naked.
At ten minutes to six only his mother represented
the family honor. Feeling sorry for her,
several members of Carrie’s family
had moved over. Even worse, when I met the
three other ushers and exchanged greetings,
I discovered that none of us had more than
a passing acquaintance with Mark. Indeed,
I, having taken a course with him, was in
the bosom buddy category compared to the
rest, all of whom were grousing about being
cajoled into this “cheesy” wedding.
Carrie,
Mark’s bride, had the type of looks
that grew on you. She was a tallish blonde,
five ten or so, and on the thin side. Her
nose might have been a bit too aquiline
for her longish face, but she had a pleasant,
sincere smile. When she took me aside and
thanked me for coming, how much it meant
to her to have me in the wedding party,
I felt she meant it.
She
was an operating room nurse, a few years
older than Mark. They’d met at a church
camp a year ago. She’d been the activities
director. He did some pastoral counseling.
Her family, judging from their dress and
physical appearance and by the fact no dinner
was being served (everyone down to the basement
recreation hall for cake, ice cream and
coffee), was dirt poor. By seven the service
was over.
I was angry because there was no meal and,
if I’d known that, I could have saved
myself the price of a room by just hopping
in the rental car and zipping back to Philadelphia
by nine at the latest. To top it off, the
bridesmaids were under twelve, Carrie’s
two nieces and two of their middle school
friends. I scanned the church for an evening
companion, but it was like trying to find
a TV show on a summer night filled with
reruns. You flip through the guide once,
strike out, toss the damn thing down and
try to think of what else you could do.
Nothing comes to mind so, in desperation,
you start channel surfing and are reduced
to watching an hour program on catching
card counters in Las Vegas. Up and down
the pews I went. When we stood for a hymn,
I scanned again thinking that, since nothing
attracted me facially, then perhaps a compelling
figure would do in my time of dire sensual
need. Nada. The closest option was a thirty-something
woman with decent breasts. Her ample rear
end was passable, but I suspected a closer,
three-dimensional side view would be far
too Rubenesque for my taste. She sang with
her head uplifted and eyes closed clutching
a bible passionately to her chest with both
hands. I reasoned that my naval officer’s
uniform might be enough of an enticement
to get her into my room and down to her
skivvies, but there wasn’t enough
charisma in the whole world to wrest the
good book from her grasp. The next most
attractive women were Carrie and Mark’s
mothers who wept through the entire service.
Thank god hitting on either of them was
still beneath me.
_______________
I
survived the wedding night. I bought a pint
of Southern Comfort and by nine I was reading
Faulkner’s The Mansion, taking a swig
from the bottle after every chapter. I drove
back to Philadelphia the next morning hung
over but had a great practice. We lost the
opening round game on Monday to a mediocre
Massachusetts team, which meant the season
was over. The good news was that I had a
week to myself before reporting to University
of Wisconsin for a nine month crash course
in meteorology. In the navy’s profound
wisdom, I, with a degree in literature,
was slated to become a weather man for the
next four years. You just go with the governmental
flow in these matters.
_______________
For
the next ten years in a desultory fashion
I read the college newsletter to keep up
with my classmates, Mark included. He had
gone on to get his doctorate at Temple,
had settled in Central Florida setting up
a substance abuse counseling center. With
each issue there was another professional
award or personal event in his life that
made the class notes. Then, one year, out
of the blue, I got a Christmas card in the
form of a two page printout, the kind that
details what the happy family has done in
the past year. Photos proved that Mark’s
hairline was receding at an alarming rate,
and he had put on a few pounds (haven’t
we all). Carrie looked remarkably unchanged
except for having shortened and lightened
her hair. There was a picture of them on
a Costa Rican beach where they had a bought
a condo to “get away from it all.”
Why suffer the summer heat and humidity
of Daytona Beach when you can escape to
downtown Costa Rica just south of the equator
I always say.
There
was the usual trivial chit chat about what
recipes they had discovered, trips they
had taken, hobbies Carrie had taken up (quilting
and hand thrown pottery) plus journal articles
Mark had written. It was the life style
that any married couple with two screeching
kids, a seven year old Accord and a second
mortgage or a bachelor like me with no life
beyond Netflixs could easily envy. I never
responded to the card and never received
another. They drifted out of my thought
process as easily as a yesterday’s
headline.
It
was a complete shock five years later when
the phone rang around nine one evening just
as I was contemplating whether I should
go to bed or continue snoozing in my heated,
vibro-massage Barco-lounger. It was Carrie
Hanley. It took me a few minutes to catalogue
the name and even longer to wonder why,
since it was roughly fifteen years since
the wedding wherein we had merely exchange
small talk, she was calling me. The long
and the short of it was that Mark was dead.
She seemed in control but not by much. The
manner of the death was vague.
“It
was sudden. One moment he was here and the
next he wasn’t.”
“I
hope he didn’t suffer.”
“No,
at least I don’t think he did.”
“Well,
thanks for letting me know. If there’s
anything I can do . . . .”
“The
service is the day after tomorrow. Since
you were his best friend, I thought you
might like to be here to say a few words.
I know how much the twice yearly trips up
to Philadelphia to see you meant to him.
He always came back refreshed and with such
great stories.”
“Trips?
Stories?”
“I
know Mark didn’t drink, but I suspect
that, when he was with you, he went out
for beers and maybe some other wild times.
I would never begrudge him even if it included
one of those male bonding flings at a strip
club. I think it was good for him to break
away a couple of times each year. He always
came back a happier person, at least for
a while.”
There
is a scene near the end of Conrad’s
Heart of Darkness where the narrator, Marlow,
out of respect, visits Kurtz’s intended
to tell her of his demise. He explains that
Kurtz’s last thoughts and words were
about her rather than reveal the real import
of his final words, “The horror, the
horror.” I now knew how poor Marlow
felt.
“He
really liked sports and that’s what
we did a lot of. Whatever was in season,
that’s what we overdosed on. I had
a few drinks, but there were no women, strippers
or otherwise. I always envied the way he
talked about how much he cared for you,
and how happy he was that you were in his
life.”
She
was crying now. “Oh god, you don’t
know how relieved I am to hear that. I don’t
think I can talk any more. I’ll e-mail
you the particulars and don’t bother
about a hotel. We have plenty of room at
the house. There I go using ‘we’
again.”
She
never did say goodbye. There were some choking
sobs and then the dam burst. I went back
to my recliner and tried to sort things
out. I was a part time adjunct professor
at a local community college so taking a
break in early October for a few days was
no biggie. I’d have the department
secretary post a sign on the door and send
out a general e-mail. The walk up airfare
was going to be an arm and a leg so, once
again, Hanley was putting the screws to
me just as he had done at the wedding. Then
the big mystery set in. What the hell was
going on? For how many years had he been
coming up to Philadelphia to “visit”
me? Okay, I dodged a bullet using the sports
angle figuring that Carrie would buy that
one, but I was walking into a mine field
with a blindfold on and the odds that, within
a few days, I’d be sporting artificial
limbs were enormous.
I
took a flight out of Philadelphia the next
morning which, via Charlotte and a thirty
seat puddle jumper, got me to Daytona airport
around eight that night. Carrie sent an
e-mail that she’d meet me. When I
got down to baggage claim it took a while
to pick her out. I was using the old Xmas
photo as my reference, and it was off the
mark. Her hair hung straight down, well
past shoulder length and was dyed a midnight
black which called undo attention to her
ghostly complexion. Despite the October
humidity and heat, she was swimming in an
oversized turtleneck. She seemed taller
and thinner, like a huge sunflower whose
weight overwhelms the stalk and makes the
head slump over at an awkward angle. Attempting
to look more presentable, she had given
her lips a quick swipe with garish red tint
to it which further accentuated her lack
of color.
She recognized me and she sprinted my way.
I didn’t know whether I was being
hugged or merely keeping her from falling
down, like an inexperienced ice skater clinging
to her partner. We made it out to the parking
area with very few words. She asked me to
drive, admitting that she was in no condition
to. I got in and asked her for directions.
“Just
go anywhere. I don’t think I can face
going back there tonight.”
I
had been up since before dawn, was exhausted
from the flight and hadn’t eaten anything
more substantial than over-salted airline
party mix washed down with Diet Coke. All
I wanted was a sandwich, a bed and for tomorrow
to be over with. “Maybe if we just
head towards your place that way, when I
collapse, I’ll have someplace soft
to crash.”
“God,
I’m being so selfish. I keep forgetting
that you’re as torn up inside as I
am.”
She
pointed me towards the highway and down
the coast towards Port Orange where they
lived. We entered one of those gated communities,
and I slalomed my way through a rabbit warren
of look-alike homes until she told me to
pull into number 3547 Taurus Lane.
She
gave me a quick tour of the house which
was certainly a showpiece. A covered lanai
with a large indoor swimming pool, professionally
landscaped and maintained grounds, a huge
kitchen and an entertainment room any male
would kill for were the big features. The
house was air-conditioned, but I was sweltering
by northern standards so she turned the
thermostat down to 65, and I began to revive.
The guest room had a decidedly feminine
touch to it, floral patterns galore and
an extensive rag doll collection that spread
over the chest of drawers and spilled onto
the floor.
I
unpacked my things such as they were, used
the bathroom and, when I came out, she had
tea brewing and a selection of bagels on
the counter.
“The
neighbors have been so nice. I received
two, huge bagel baskets. I don’t really
like them so if you could dispose of a few
dozen it would be a great help.”
I
ate. The headache that had been throbbing
started to dissipate. She went over tomorrow’s
schedule. Mark had been cremated. We would
be going to the chapel where their minister
would say a few words and then colleagues
and I would “remember” him.
After that she would be given the urn to
take with her. He wanted his remains spread
off New Smyrna Beach in Florida, in the
waters around Costa Rica and the remainder
dispersed back in Norristown, Pennsylvania
where he was raised.
I
polished off another salted bagel thinking
it was a poor imitation of the pretzels
at Reading Market when she guided me out
of the kitchen into the living area.
“I
need to talk tonight. I know you’re
probably exhausted and, if you fall asleep
on me, it won’t matter much; I’ll
just pretend you’re awake. I want
to do something I’ve never done in
my life before.” She got up and went
to the dining room hutch, reached down into
the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vodka.
“My faith forbids drinking, and I’ve
never touched a drop in my life. I don’t
even know how to make a drink or what I
should do with it. I just asked the man
in the store what most people bought.”
She
held up a quart of Belvedere. The counterman
must have spotted a rookie a mile away.
“Do
you have any tonic water, bitter lemon,
that sort of thing?”
“I
don’t drink soda but Mark was addicted
to Dr. Pepper although lately he was buying
the diet version.”
“That
will do, I suppose.” I went out to
the kitchen and mixed her a drink using
a half a shot to eight ounces of Diet Dr.
Pepper while generously doubling the ratio
for myself. When I came back, she was scrunched
up in the corner of the large, overstuffed
couch looking like a frightened animal.
She took a sip of the mixture, made a wry
face and choked. Whether it was the vodka,
her dislike of soda or the sin of it all
in the eyes of good Southern Baptists was
beyond the pale.
“Mark
battled depression for many years. I noticed
it in the first year of our marriage. He’d
shut himself up in a room and just sit in
front of the TV or sleep for hours on end.
I finally got the nerve to ask his mother,
and she said that it had never happened
growing up. So, all these years I felt it
was me that triggered it. I had a very moral
upbringing. Mark and I never did it until
after we were man and wife. He never said
anything, but I’m sure I was a disappointment
in the bedroom. I imagine you and he sowed
plenty of wild oats back in the day.”
“Mark
and I were pretty strait-laced in college.
To my knowledge there were no steady girlfriends
or insignificant others as far as he was
concerned. When you came into the picture,
you were what he talked about most. He said
he’d finally found his soul mate.”
I was pure Marlow here. My task, as I saw
it at that moment, was to comfort the grieving
widow.
She
shifted her position on the couch, tucking
her knees underneath and facing me at an
angle. In doing so she momentarily revealed
a very shapely upper thigh. “Do you
know if he was depressed back in school?”
“I
don’t want to contradict his mother,
but he was, how can I put it, withdrawn
at times.”
“That’s
the way I found him. If we were out someplace
he could be distant. In the last few years
it was even tougher to reach him. I often
asked him what was wrong, was there anything
the matter and he said no. That was so hard
for me. He’d say it sarcastically,
‘There is nothing wrong; everything
is wonderful.’”
She
held out her empty glass. “Make me
another. I want to get drunk, but so far
I don’t feel a thing. I think I have
such a high metabolism that it will take
most of the bottle unless the liquor store
man cheated me. It was fifty dollars a bottle
so it better have more kick than tap water.”
I
went out to the kitchen and mixed her a
drink. She followed me leaning against the
archway so I gave her glass a double shot
of Belvedere, threw in a few inches of Dr.
Pepper and handed it two her.
“Mark
killed himself.” She took two long
pulls, drained her drink and handed me the
empty glass. “Hit me or is that a
poker term?”
I
took it from her, topped the ice off with
soda, another generous shot of vodka and
handed it back. “It is a card game,
blackjack to be specific.”
“I
don’t suppose you have a cigarette?”
“I
don’t smoke.”
“I
just want to sin as much as I can tonight,
touch bottom and tomorrow go back to being
the starchy old fuddy duddy I really am.”
“I’d
offer to get you a pack but my sinus cavities
would block up, and I’d be unfit for
anyone but geese to be around.”
She
took a big gulp of her drink and came towards
me, putting her fingers on my face as if
she were blind and wanted to “see”
what I looked like.
“Do
you think sex was important to Mark?”
“We
really never talked of it. Relationship
discussions might be more a female thing.
Now, if you want opinions on the Phillies’
outfield last year . . . ?”
She
turned, grabbed me by the hand and led me
back to the couch where we sat down side
by side. “I’m making you uncomfortable,
aren’t I?”
“It’s
just that Mark and I weren’t so close
where he would reveal his innermost thoughts.”
“I
volunteer at the local hospital. I run training
sessions. I left around nine in the morning.
Mark was in one of his moods. He was in
the TV room in his underwear watching a
Home Shopping channel about coins. I kissed
him goodbye, but he was just a lump. I told
him to think about going to ‘The Getaway’
which is what we called the condo in Costa
Rica. The one thing that pulled him out
of the doldrums was to move about. Usually
the day before we left and a few days after
we got there, he’d be great. Then
the fog would settle around him again. I
once wondered about an RV; would that do
the trick?”
“Are
you financially secure for the near future?”
She
waved off my question as if she were chasing
an annoying insect. “I called at one,
but there was no answer. This was not unusual
because when the blackness was upon him
he’d never talk to anybody. When I
got home at five he was still in the same
chair as when I left except he had taken
almost every pill in the house, puked, choked
on it and peed himself. That’s the
last memory I have of him, the smell of
his vomit and urine.”
She
was beginning to slur her words and her
eyes were heavy. I took her glass, went
out to the kitchen and made her a double,
confident that, within the hour, my ordeal
would be over. When I came back to the living
area, she was walking heel to toe, arms
outstretched then touching her forefinger
to her nose. “I don’t think
I’m drunk yet.”
She
stumbled trying to avoid the coffee table
and then lurched into my arms. I walked
her back to the couch.
“How
many women have you been to bed with?”
“I
really don’t know.”
“When
men say they don’t know, it either
means a lot and they are animals, or so
few that their manhood is threatened and
they don’t want to tell.”
“In
my case it means that I never developed
a spreadsheet to keep track, but I suppose
I might have just made it to double figures.”
“I
wanted Mark to rent porn videos so I could
see what a man wanted, but he wouldn’t.
I know I wasn’t pleasing him. I think
he loved me but wasn’t attracted to
me sexually. That’s why I wouldn’t
have blamed him if, on his visits to see
you, he had gone to the local cat house
or whatever they call it and shot his wad
as the gutter saying goes.”
“When
we saw each other it was mainly to catch
up on old times, go to sporting events and
shoot the breeze.”
“I
once thought about hiring a man or getting
picked up in a bar and have the guy teach
me what it was men liked. But then I read
a book that said that all men are different.
What works for one might be a turnoff for
another.”
“It
sounds as if you’re blaming yourself
too much. Considering Mark’s profession,
he didn’t practice what he might have
been preaching to his patients--good communication.”
“You
know, I don’t really blame myself
that much.” Her words were thick now,
and she had begun to drool ever so slightly
as well as sway slightly even though she
was sitting. “He was sick and he didn’t
want to get better. I tried everything to
make him care but nothing worked. I think
I could have learned every sexual trick
in the book, and it wouldn’t have
helped. It might have made him happy for
an hour, just like an aspirin helps a headache
for a while, but then I’d have to
try and live with myself. I might have learned
how to do oral sex, but that would have
gone against my beliefs about what the Lord
Jesus intended a normal relationship between
a man and wife to be.”
“So
it sounds like you’re on the road
to recovery.” I was trying to end
the monologue but nothing I said was registering.
“I
don’t think I like sex. I tried, but
I’m just one of those non-sexual people,
I guess. I took an opera appreciation course
once. Some women I knew talked me into it.
I learned all about the stories and the
great singers. Then we went all the way
to Tampa to see one. It was three of the
most boring hours. I don’t even know
the name of the thing, but there was only
one nice aria which was just that, nice.
For me sex is like opera. Do I want to sit
for three hours butt naked, pretending to
be aroused by wandering hands and probing
fingers, all for a few pleasurable spasms
that are merely ‘nice’”?
She
pronounced the last word “nischee”
just before the nearly empty glass slipped
from her hand and ice spilled onto the oriental
carpet. “Shit,” she mumbled,
slumped back into the couch and closed her
eyes. I bent down and scooped up the few
cubes and spread the watery stain over a
wider area with my hand.
“The
room is spinning,” she said matter
of factly, “and did you notice I just
swore.”
“I
hadn’t noticed and, if the room is
spinning, it might be best to open your
eyes and try sitting up at bit.”
She
made a valiant attempt to lean forward but
failed. Her eyes were open but just barely.
“I’m proud of myself. I said
‘shit,’ and it was something
that just came out naturally. You know Mark
and I always used the words ‘penis,’
‘vagina,’ and intercourse. I
could never bring myself to use the bad
swears.”
“It
was the way you were raised.”
“I
want you to do something for me.”
“No
more drinks, if that’s what you’re
thinking.”
No,
I’m drunk. Although it seems that
if I know I’m drunk then I must not
be because I still have cognition. Anyway,
I want to play a game, a word game. I want
you to say the socially acceptable word
to see if I can use the curse word, understand?
For instance, if I said ‘breast,’
what would you say?”
“Boobs.”
“God
no, boobs isn’t vulgar enough. Hell,
even I’ve used the word ‘boobs’
as in boob job. Tits--now that would be
a better answer. Okay, you say the acceptable
word.”
“Penis.”
“Good
one—cock.”
“Vagina.”
“Cunt
or pussy, either one works”
“Copulation.”
She
started to speak but began gagging instead.
Then her eyes grew big and she turned green.
I reached out to the coffee table and grabbed
a large crystal bowl and got it to her mouth
just in time to catch the first wave of
Dr. Pepper colored vodka. She slipped off
the couch and onto the floor on all fours
with the bowl in front of her as if she
were a large dog drinking from its dish.
I pulled her hair back out of harms way
and used my handkerchief to mop up between
episodes. Ten minutes later she was in the
dry heave phase so I had time to run to
the bathroom, grab a wet towel and perform
a more thorough cleaning of her face and
spruce up other areas of collateral damage.
Fifteen minutes later she was sitting up
and had enough energy to moan. I propped
her body up with throw pillows and covered
her with a blanket. I found a plastic bucket
in the kitchen and put it in her lap. I
took some pillows and a blanket from the
guestroom and spread them on the floor next
to the couch. Sounding as if she was under
water she asked, “You still here?”
“I’ll
be sleeping on the floor. If you need anything
just slur and I’ll be at your beck
and call.”
She
smiled. “You know how I said I didn’t
care about sex?’
“A
whole lot of effort and trouble for something
that was barely nice?”
“I’d
take sex any day over drinking. I never
once puked after doing it with Mark.”
“Let’s
get some sleep. Tomorrow is a big day and,
if you think you feel bad now . . . .”
“I
never did say it, did I? I could do all
the other words, but I just couldn’t
say the ‘F’ word.”
“You’re
not in shape yet. A few more nights like
tonight and hangovers like what you’re
going to experience, and you’ll be
“F-ing” with the best of the
homeboys down in the ‘hood.”
I looked over for her response, but she
was fast asleep, snoring like a sailor home
on a weekend pass.
_______________
Mark’s
service was for eleven. At eight I made
the first attempt at rousing the grieving
widow. By nine all socially acceptable methods
had failed so I dragged her fully clothed
into the palatial shower, leaned her against
the hand-decorated tile and let the nozzles
do the rest. Ten minutes later she stumbled
out into the kitchen wearing an oversized
terrycloth robe begging for coffee. I never
drink the stuff so I’m at a loss at
to how to work the vast array of electronic
gadgets required to produce the concoction.
She attempted to do for herself but gave
up due to a splitting headache. The carrot
at the end of the stick I offered was that,
if she dressed quickly, we’d ask the
limo driver to stop somewhere. There was
a brief debate concerning how inappropriate
that might be before necessity won out over
respect for the dearly departed.
By
ten forty we were at the Port Orange Baptist
Church, a non-descript building that may
at one time have been a restaurant (my guess
was Chinese) before its conversion to a
house for the faithful. Carrie, even with
dark glasses, two large cups of black coffee
and plenty of bottled water, looked like
death warmed over. Her skin had a transparency
to it, like the patina of waxed fruit which
gave her the look of a cheap doll. I don’t
know if she had washed her hair, but, if
she had, she never bothered to style it
other than to pull it back as severely as
her headache would permit. She wore a black
silk blouse and a matching skirt that fell
just below the knee but kept riding up due
to severe static cling.
By
10:50 we and the minister, Reverend Coulter,
were still the only people in the chapel.
Mark’s ashes were in a bronze urn
center stage. At eleven, six women, probably
members of the church whose retirement permitted
them to attend such events, filed by Carrie
and offered up their sincerest condolences.
The good Reverend began on time, uttering
some general opinions about death and where
Mark was now residing, in theory a far better
location than this troubled world. There
were a few biblical verses intended to place
a “healing balm on the churning waters
of despair” for those who would miss
Mark. Carrie had begun crying when the service
started, and it increased in intensity as
the eulogy continued. My fear was that she
would lose control and throw herself upon
the urn not unlike some Hindu wives.
Reverend
Coulter finished his remarks and, looking
in my direction, asked if I wanted to contribute
to Mark’s memory. I got up and stood
behind the lectern. The church was empty
save for the six professional mourners,
the limo driver, the Reverend, Carrie and
myself. I spoke about first meeting Mark
in class, having dinner with him and attending
his wedding. I said I was jealous when he
found the right woman and embarked upon
a successful career. On the plane I’d
prepared some lines about how I hoped, when
I went to my great reward, there was an
equal outpouring of friends and family to
see me off. I did a fast edit, cut to the
chase and mumbled the idea that maybe, if
Mark could see how much pain and suffering
he was causing Carrie, he would not have
done this to her. It was probably a bit
of a faux pas to allude to suicide, but
it was all I could think of in the Florida
heat and humidity.
Reverend
Coulter saved my ass with a firm handshake
and then in a solemn gesture retrieved the
urn and held it out to Carrie. It is possible
a dead snake would have been better received.
I reached over and took the burden as Carrie
was now about to go over the falls without
a barrel emotionally. The Reverend’s
elderly handmaidens came over to lend support,
but Carrie had shriveled into a mass of
black cloth that clung to my right shoulder
avoiding everyone’s prying eyes. My
watch read 11:30 AM and for the next half
hour that’s the way we sat, her sobs
struggling against her need to breathe every
so often while I sat there with Mark’s
urn in my lap, unable to do much as I feared
breaking some shibboleth if I dared put
him on the floor.
Around
noon she ran out of gas. At first I thought
the silence was because she had fallen asleep,
like a baby crying for attention in its
crib finally giving up the cause. Then,
in a weak voice, she asked me if everyone
was gone.
“There’s
just you and me. Although it wouldn’t
surprise me if the Reverend popped out of
some crevice to bid us one last goodbye.”
“Do
you think the limo driver is still there?”
“I
can check.”
She
didn’t answer me so I put Mark on
the pew and got up. Her face and hair were
a mess. Her makeup had dissolved and smudged
itself all over her face. “I need
to use the ladies’ room before we
go home. The good news is that my headache
is gone; the bad is that I drank so much
coffee and water that I peed myself at some
point during the service, and I don’t
know if it’s going to show.”
I
gave her the once over and saw that most
of her skirt was soaked, but I tried to
be charitable. “I don’t think
anyone’s going to care.”
I
escorted her to the bathroom. Mark and I
stood guard for what seemed like an eternity.
When she came out her face had been freshly
scrubbed and she wasn’t wearing any
panty hose. The limo driver, the smell of
several cigarettes still upon him, opened
the door for us and we slid in. The plan
of attack had been for me to go back to
the house with her and then take a cab to
Daytona Beach Airport, but we were running
late for my 2:30 PM flight. I thought of
taking a later plane but decided that my
babysitting patience was running low, and
I was a bit fearful of what the relationship
between the vulnerable Carrie and me might
turn into given her fragile state.
“I
think I’m going to ask the limo guy
to drop me off at the airport, if that’s
okay?”
She
didn’t answer so I rapped on the window
and, with the mildest of dirty looks and
a, “Why didn’t you tell me five
minutes ago, buddy,” he pulled into
a convenience store parking lot and reversed
direction. We were on our new course for
a few minutes before she spoke.
“Could
you take the ashes with you?”
I
was stunned, first by the practical issue
of getting a bronze urn through security
and second by the foisting of the responsibility.
“What about spreading the ashes in
the Atlantic, Costa Rica and wherever?”
“You
could dump it all in Pennsylvania; that’s
part of what he wanted.”
“But
what about the other two thirds? Maybe you
could hire someone to do that part and then
Fed Ex me what‘s left?”
She
was silent, and I thought she was about
to sulk or begin to cry again, but then
she brighten up a little. “You’re
right; this is my job. I’ll see it
gets done.”
I
breathed a selfish sigh of relief and checked
my watch to see if I’d have to rush.
She reached over and kissed my cheek.
“I
can’t thank you enough for what you’ve
done for me. I wouldn’t have made
it without you.”
“I
think you would have, and you probably wouldn’t
have been hung over this morning.”
“I’m
terrible at this sin stuff. I will never
drink again as long as I live. I will crusade
to get others to give it up. And I might
take a crack at converting you to accept
Jesus if you hang around long enough. Then
again, I’m either frigid or too scared
of sex to be of much interest to you or
any man.”
“I’m
guessing you’re not wearing any underwear
right now.”
For
the first time since we’d met she
laughed. “Oh god, I took them off
in the bathroom and flushed the panties
and stockings. When I came out to meet you
I felt really dangerous as if the whole
world knew I was naked underneath. Now I
just feel uncomfortable. You can’t
see anything, can you?”
“No,
your secret is safe with me. When I get
back home tonight, if it’s not too
late, I’ll give you a ring just to
see how things are.”
“Call
no matter what. I doubt I’ll get much
sleep. I have sleeping pills but I’d
rather just ride the emotions out.”
We
came up to the airport exit and the driver
asked me what terminal. I told him, and
he quickly changed lanes to a chorus of
honks and middle fingers.
“Some
time soon I’d like to come up to Philadelphia
and visit you the way Mark did. Maybe you
could pretend I’m him, and we’d
visit the same haunts and do the things
you and he used to do.”
“Okay,
but the fair warning is that I don’t
have a guest room; it’s a studio apartment
of sorts and, secondly, we mainly went to
baseball and basketball games.”
She
looked out the window so I really couldn’t
see her face. Her voice was distant and
had an edge to it. “I slept on a sofa
last night, and I think I know more about
baseball than I do sex. I’ll try not
to be a burden.”
The
car stopped at my terminal. Limo Larry popped
the trunk and was retrieving my carry on
and book bag. There was an awkward silence
for us in the rear seat. Each of us knew
that we needed to say something but feared
that, when we did, it would probably be
far below or way above what the situation
called for. I took her left hand and pulled
her close to me in a clumsy hug. She began
crying again. Terrific, her wound was just
starting to heal, and I had inadvertently
pulled the scab off with the Band-Aid. I
got out on the driver’s side picking
up Mark’s urn as I did. When the driver
handed me my book bag, I unzipped it, fit
Mark in as best I could and then hefted
him over my shoulder. I went behind the
back of the car to the passenger’s
side. She was sitting on the seat’s
edge with her feet on the sidewalk. When
she saw me she sprang up, locking her arms
around me in a death grip of incessant “thank
you’s”. We stayed that way for
a few minutes until Larry Limo ahemed that
we were in a tow zone, and he was being
given the evil eye by a state trooper. She
broke her hold on me, and I held her out
at arms length. She was still crying but,
rainbow-like, there was the suggestion of
a smile.
“You
know the old saying about how the longest
journey begins with the smallest step or
some such nonsense.”
I
nodded a quixotic agreement. She stepped
back, executed a very revealing, flamenco-style
pirouette and then, with a devil may care
attitude, flounced herself very unlady like
back into the limo. Larry gunned the engine
and pulled away.
Her
moment was not lost on me. I made my way
into the airport. I stopped by the gift
shop and bought the cheapest suitcase I
could find, put the urn in it and checked
Mark through to Philadelphia. At least for
the long trip home he’d be out of
sight and mind until I could figure what
to do with the three of us, four if you
include any Messiah.
A
Wedding and the Funeral
©
2006 by
D.E. Fredd
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