A Fairy Tale of New York (2 page)

Darkness

In all my

Grief

3

Sound of snow shovelling in the street. Ship's whistle from the river. Tingling and banging in the pipes along the wall. Outside the wind blows hard and shivers the window. Knocks on the door.

''Mr Christian there's a man for you down stairs."

"Please tell him I 'm coming right away.''

Christian looking into the street below. A man in dark coat, green shirt, black tie. No hat over his half bald head and grey wisps of hair. A black long car. Come for me. Can't keep him waiting. Can't stop them putting you in the ground under the snow.

Mrs Grotz at the door, hunched, breath steaming in the cold air, her hands rubbing. Watching Christian pass and meet the chauffeur halfway down the steps. A solemn soft voice and placing a black cap on his head.

"You Mr Christian. I 'mfrom the Vine funeral home.''

"Sorry to keep you waiting.''

Grotz edging her slippered feet out into the snow. Straining ears to listen. Her mouth open, eyes wide.

"Hey what's the matter. Who's hurt. Some trouble. You from a funeral."

Christian stopping turning. Pulling gloves tighter on his hands. Looks up the steps at Mrs Grotz.

"It's my wife."

"What's a matter, you got a wife. Where's your wife. What's a matter your wife.''

"She's dead."

"Mister. Oh mister."

The park ahead, little rolling hill in velvet snow. So white and Christmas. Birds taking white baths. Ploughs pushing it up, conveyor belts pouring it into trucks. I've no black tie. But a green one will suit Mr Vine. People we pass look at this expensive car.

''You comfortable. Mr Christian.''

"Yes thanks."

"They're shovelling salt. Then when the snow melts the guy's tires in front shoot it up on your windshield. Some problem. They know it's going to snow every year, you'd think they'd do something."

"Yes."

A morning sun shining in slits along the crosstown streets and in shadows across the park. These tall hotels. All so slender women walk in. Where the lights glow. And everybody's scared of everybody. And maybe Vine and his personal touch.

Green neon sign. Vine Funeral Parlor. Everybody calls it a home. Sanitation department truck stopped outside. Bedraggled men filling it with snow. Mr Vine waves his arm. Seems red in the face.

"Good morning, Mr Christian. Had to tell these men to get this garbage truck out of here. Come this way, Mr Christian."

Vine pushing open the door. A firm handshake, nodding his head and twitching. Shaking water out of his ears after swimming. Now he beckons the way.

"It's my favourite music I've chosen, Mr Christian. She's very beautiful. She's waiting for you. Our Miss Musk will take care of you. And just press the button when you want me. All right."

"Yes."

This young woman steps forth from the shadows. Can't look at her face. Just see her slender ankle and leg. And hear her friendly voice.

"I'm Elaine Musk, Mr Vine's assistant. May I take your coat."

"I think I'll keep it on. For a moment.''

"The music hasn't begun yet. And if there's anything, just anything, I 'm here to help.''

"Thank you."

The room dark. Curtains drawn across the window to the street. And the green light flickering behind the glass. Casket gleaming and black. On a pedestal, the wreath illumined in green. My Helen written with the tiny white heads of lilies of the valley. A table with a Bible. Chairs along the wall for mourners. Even has my flowers lit up. He must rake in the money. I'm glad the casket's black. I'd die if it were green. Now go and kneel. So soft and I can't look at you. See just the tips of your knuckles. You don't have to shake Vine's hand, he almost broke mine. If you'd move. Encased in glass and you can't get up. Forgive me because I haven't got the courage to look at you. Because I'd see you dead forever. What happens to all the flesh and blood. No child. You leave nothing except the pain of missing you. And I didn't want the expense because a baby cost money. I wouldn't part with a penny. Only reason I had. I knew you were begging me and I'd always say let's wait. And we waited. Your casket's so smooth. Funny I put my hand along the bottom to see if it's stuck with chewing gum. Vine would never allow that. And although he must be half crazy he's given me comfort because I don't feel you're laughed at or joked over dead. Got to keep my head down or I'll look by accident. Thought I would cry and I can't. Helen, I wish we were different from everybody else. Scream for some sort of thing that makes us you and me. Neither of us nothing. And on the ship you said you wanted to lie down in the cabin. Those first Americans you met just tired you out. And I was so proud of bringing you back to my country. I wanted you to like them. And even after you'd gone, I didn't want anyone to come and touch me on the arm and back with a pat or two and say I'm sorry about it, about your wife, have courage or something, but I did want them I wanted someone to show something. Anything. But not a soul on that damn ship came near me except for money. And each second you get further away from me. Dig the hole with the straight sides and before it gets dark they've got you covered up. And all the times I wished you were dead. So I could be free. They were black thoughts of anger. But I thought them. Must get up. Look out the window.

Silently crossing the room. Parting the thick curtains to the late morning light of the street. And people hunching by in the cold. Over there Murray's Best For Bargains. Vine said press the button when you're ready. Does he take ordinary lipstick and put it on the lips. Or take it out of a pot they use on everyone. And all sorts of lips. And make them the kind that gleam and don't have cracks, and are red and now over ripe. Vine had a green handkerchief in his pocket. What has he got against the color green. Most of his life must be whispering, nodding, hand rubbing, and the five words, we'll take care of everything.

Christian turning from the window. Mr Vine leaning over the casket wiping the glass.

"Must be a little condensation on the inside Mr Christian. But I hate anything to mar such a lovely face. Woman's lips are one of the most beautiful parts of her body. I can always tell a woman who looks at a man's lips when he talks instead of his eyes. Are you all right.''

''Yes. Do you think we could leave now.''

"Yes, a few minutes. Our large reposing room is busy this morning. We never know in this business.''

"Mr Vine I think maybe you're telling me too much about your business. I don't want to say anything but it's getting me down."

"Don't get sore. I forget sometimes. I try to make everyone feel at home and not treat the funeral business as something strange. People ought to know about it. My own funeral is already arranged. But don't get sore. When it happened to me and it was my wife, I found I wanted some sort of distraction and because I arranged the services myself it made me feel better. And I thought you wanted to take an interest.''

''This isn't distraction.''

"Take it easy son. You're not alone in this, remember that. If I shot my mouth off, I'm sorry. I don't want to do that with nobody. But getting sore isn't going to bring her back. Beauty is the only thing you can remember. Try to remember beauty. Come on, I like you, be a sport.''

"My wife's dead."

"I know that."

''Well, what the hell do you mean, sport.''

"If I understand you correctly Mr Christian, you'd rather I didn't conduct this any further. I can put you in the hands of an assistant if you prefer.''

"All right, all right. I'm not the kind of person who wants to start trouble. Leave everything as it is. I'm just worried about money and what I 'm going to do.''

"Look. Listen to me. I want to tell you straight. I don't cut cash out of nobody. I don't conduct this business on those lines. You've got as long as you want and longer. Understand me. And if that isn't long enough I'll think of something. If you hadn't come here alone from another country I wouldn't take all this trouble but you seem to be a nice guy. I even thought you were a type for this profession and that's a compliment as far as I'm concerned. You're a gentleman. And when it's over, if you want to come back and see me, I'd like that. There's a place for you here, remember that. And if you make that decision, I'd be honored. Shall we close it now, Mr Christian. You're ready.''

"All right."

' ' You can wait with the chauffeur.''

"Ok."

"We'll take care of you, Christian, remember this isn't death. All this is life."

Walking out of the hall. Through the curtained doors. Putting up coat collars. The chauffeur smoking a cigarette,, One of his grey wisps of hair hangs and goes into his ear. Christian coughs. Chauffeur getting out to open the door. A flash of yellow socks with white stripes.

The car pulls across the road. The hearse draws up in front of the Vine Funeral Parlor. Three men step out, rubbing their green gloved hands, stamping their feet on the hard snow. Elevated train roaring by on its iron trestle at the end of the street. The garbage truck has taken away its pile of snow. Chauffeur blows a smoke ring. And he turns around.

"Would you like this blanket, Mr Christian. Put it; round your legs in case you get cold. Always a few degrees colder when you get out of the city."

"Thanks."

''They are coming out now, Mr Christian.''

Mr Vine standing aside, holding back a door. Coffin on four shoulders. Like an elephant, four black legs. Vine twitches his head, bends his ear to his shoulder and rubs. Goes in again. Comes out in a black overcoat, papers in his hand, hatless, eyes bright. Crossing the street. Stepping gingerly with his gleaming black shoes over the ridges of snow. Leaning in the window to the chauffeur.

"To expedite the journey, Charles, we'll take the "West Side Drive. Go up Park and crosstown on Fifty Seventh. You all right, Mr Christian."

"Yes."

Vine pausing, a car sweeps by. He looks upon the rest of the world as something he will bury. His gravel voiced military manoeuvres. I guess we're going. No use fighting over it. He's only trying to be nice. First time anyone ever offered me a job.

Hearse pulling out. Vine signaling with his hand. And we follow. To the end of the street. Another elevated train. Wake Helen up. Window full of refrigerators there. Say they're giving them away for nothing, almost. Just step inside for bargains beyond belief. I feel like there's nothing around me in the world. Highway on the curve of the earth. Everybody knows why I'm in this car and Helen in hers.

The two black vehicles swiftly moving across Fifty Seventh Street. Past the opera house on the corner. People huddled up under the marquee waiting for the bus. The sky opens up where the city ends and the Hudson flows by. Up the ramp and flowing out into the stream of cars on the smooth white highway. Towering cold bridge over the Harlem Eiver. Farther and the red tiled roofs of houses behind the leafless trees. Along here the rich live down to the water's edge.

Road curves up through the second woods. Ean through them playing as a kid. When deer stood frozen still. To escape an enemy eye. And chipmunks auburn striped sped up and down branches. This cobble stone road once had trolley tracks. Tell no one anything. You don't want the world knowing about your life. Or this lake we leave behind in the valley, a swamp and golf course. Great chains hang from post to post. Tall iron gates. Monuments inside with stained glass windows. Some with spires. Take you in here and lay you down. This cold day. Knuckles frozen. Breasts still. Where no love can taste. Tickle or tender.

Man in soft grey uniform salutes. Mr Vine steps out across the snow. Up the steps into a grey stone building. Thin veins of ivy. Vine's coming to speak.

"There'll be a few minutes delay. Just a formality. Charles, just pull the car up in front there and wait for us."

Chauffeur turning, ice crackling under the wheels.

"It's nothing, Mr Christian. Just identification. They have to check everybody who's buried.''

Coffin on the four shoulders disappearing under the canopy and into the squat building tucked into the side of the hill. Be looking at her again. They give us no privacy. They'd shout back at me if I object. If you own a bird and it's flown away you run out to tell the whole world. And they say to you to shut up, you're disturbing the peace.

They come out. Shift and slide it in. Engines purr and we move. All these winding roads and trees. People under the stones. So white and white. Branches frozen silver. Paths crisscrossing everywhere. Tombs on the hills. Heads in sorrow. Can't believe I worked here once cutting grass. Lightning in a sky in summer. A bronze woman melted and cold on a door. Cowled face with a hand on her cheek. Hold away the world from the rich bones inside. A white marble man and woman stand up out of their rock. Look out over a sea. Where ships die. And men slip below the cold water. And where are you nearest.

No trees here. Four men stand by the tent. They've brushed away the snow. Fake grass over the mound of earth. Clarance Vine comes back to this car.

"Mr Christian. I thought since you've got no religious preference I might read something. And I've just told Charles to give a few dollars to the grave diggers if that's all right, it's the average tip."

"Yes."

"We'll go then."

Gently sloping hill. Snow lies for miles. Fades below the stiff dark trees. High grey sky. Know young girls you love. Take cigarettes from lips and kiss. A dance band plays. Grow up loving memories. Die leaving none. Except the Christmas Eves. When the whole year stops. These Polish hands who shovel on the dirt. They lick their lips on pay day and sit at poker tonight and drink wine. Downtown in the city. Where they take away a wife who clings to railings along the sidewalk and she screams and they lock her up. Can't see her anymore because she's crazy. Love you as much as love can be. Cooking and washing. Mending and waiting. Each thread of body till it breaks.

"If you'll just stand there, Mr Christian, I'll read these few words I've got here.

''

Cornelius Christian next to Clarance Vine. Who holds out his little paper. Nods his head to the diggers. Straps stiffening under the coffin. Mist in the air from his voice.