Funeral with a View (16 page)

“What’s wrong?”

Cat and I were seated at
the picnic table eating Chinese takeout. Summer was close to its end and we’d
been making a point to enjoy what little of it was left. Something was bugging
her, that much was clear. A confirmed Chinese food addict, she’d barely made a
dent. That in and of itself made me feel as if something wasn’t quite right. Her
fingers worrying over her C&R charm bracelet set it in stone.

“I got my period again
this morning,” she said sullenly.

Two more months, two more
visits from Aunt Flo. We’d been trying to get pregnant since getting back from
the honeymoon. Trying a
lot.
As each new month brought another period, Cat
became more dejected. It was a slow burn. At first she’d handled the
disappointment with subtle optimism, but her frustration was growing daily. My
wife’s emotional armor tarnished more and more each day.

“Again? Shit. I’m sorry, Cat.
It’s not that abnormal though, is it? We’ve only been trying a couple months.”

“I know. Maybe I’m being
impatient, but I want it to happen so badly.” Her eyes met mine, their fiery
hazel offset by her sadness. “Talk about ironic. When I didn’t want to be
pregnant I had no problems, and now that I do want it …” She sighed. A dry
breeze blew a strand of lengthening hair into her face. She left it there. “I
get so worked up every month.”

“Hey.” I walked behind
her and kneaded her tense shoulders with my thumbs. “You’re getting
too
worked up. I know you want to start a family. So do I. It’ll happen in time.
You can’t keep pressuring yourself like this. The stress isn’t healthy.”

She relaxed as I gently
massaged. “This may sound awful, but sometimes it’s not easy when I visit Jude
and Rob. The twins are getting so big, Ricky. It’s hard not to be a little
jealous. You must think I’m obsessed.”

“Obsessed? Anxious and
disappointed, but not obsessed. I think deep down you’ve already convinced yourself
it’ll never happen. You can’t think that way, Cat. Some people try for years.
I’m not saying that’ll be us, but you need to give us some time. Besides, we
both like the practice, don’t we?”

“Mmm hmmm.”

“Tell you what. Let’s
watch some shitty slapstick movie tonight and get a good laugh in. Forget the
baby situation for a couple hours. You with me?”

“Sounds good.” Cat
touched her lips to my hand.

I did most of the talking
and eating for the rest of the meal. Cat was too busy playing with her bracelet
to do much of either.

~~~

There’s nothing like a classic
Mel Brooks movie to unburden the mind. In this instance, watching
High
Anxiety
while cuddled up on the couch was our balm of choice.

We were in the middle of
laughing our asses off as Mel Brooks tried, unsuccessfully, to evade a barrage
of pigeon shit when the phone rang.

“I’ll get it.” Catherine hit
the pause button and ran to the kitchen.

Why is it that cordless
phones never seem to be around when you need them?

But I digress.

The movie brought Catherine
out of her funk somewhat. Laughter is not only contagious, it’s the best
medicine. Where my pep talk had failed, Mel’s twisted Hitchcockian comedy proved
much more effective. As the movie got more out of control I could almost feel
her stress melt away.

“Hello?” A pause. “Oh.
Hi. Yeah, I’m good. You?” Cat’s clipped, tense words piqued my curiosity. “Yes,
he’s here. Hold on a sec. Here, Rick. It’s for you.”

“For me?” The look she
gave told me how stupid the question was. “Right. Hello?”

“Rick? It’s Sandy Colbert.
I didn’t get you at a bad time, did I?”

“Um, no. No, not at all.”
Catherine sat next to me, arms folded across her stomach in a pose that could
have been filed under N for ‘Not Happy.’ “We were just watching a movie. What’s
up?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll call
back.”

“That’s not necessary.
It’s fine, really. Hold on a sec?” I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “Sorry,
Cat. Work call. I’ll try to make it quick.” Catherine shrugged. “Sandy? I’m
back,” I said, and went into the kitchen.

“Good. I’m at the office
and—”

“Still?” I glanced at the
microwave’s clock. “Jesus, it’s almost quarter to ten. Fourteen hour work days
are the stuff premature strokes are made of.”

“Yes, I’m still at the
office and I’m flattered that you care about my health so much. I was doing
some bookkeeping, running some numbers, and I can’t find the damned copy of the
Marriot file. I needed to know where you kept yours again.”

“Sure. No problem.”

One quick reminder later,
she sighed and I thought I heard what sounded like a slap to the forehead.
“That’s right. I feel so scatterbrained today. Thanks Rick, you’re a
lifesaver.”

“I always thought of
myself as a Jolly Rancher kinda guy, but you’re welcome either way. And get
home, will ya? You won’t be doing the company any good if you’re found dead at
your desk in the morning. The janitor’s seen too many winters, and I’m pretty
sure discovering your cold body would give him a heart attack. You don’t want
that on your conscience, do you?”

Sandy’s laugh was pure
silk. “No, not at all. So hard to find a janitor that won’t rob you blind.
Thanks again, Rick. You’re the best. Please, apologize to Catherine for me?”

I assured her I would,
then we said our goodbyes.

“Lost a file, huh?” Cat
said.

I settled in on the
couch, phone with me just in case. “Eavesdropper. She sends her apologies by
the way.”

“I bet.”

“Ready to finish up the
movie?”

“Yep.”

I hit play. Mel Brooks
thought he found shelter from a blitzkrieg of avian poop only to discover his
refuge has a hole in the ceiling. I laughed until I had tears in my eyes.

For the first time in a
long time, Catherine hadn’t found it funny.

Summer gave way to fall, fall
turned into winter. Christmas was right around the corner and the Franchitti
household brimmed with holiday spirit in spite of one looming issue:
Operation:
Get Pregnant!
had passed the six month mark without even so much as a close
call. Not exactly the blink of an eye, but we knew people who’d tried much
longer, sometimes pushing years rather than months before finding success. Catherine
carried on in stoic determination as we continued to try until it stuck.

“Glen? Glen!”

“Yes, dear.”

“Where did you put that
angel I bought for the top of Richard’s tree? I can’t find it anywhere.”

“Looking for it, dear.”

“Mom, would you stop yelling?
Keep it up and you’ll give the twins nightmares.”

Santa’s helpers had graced
us with their presence in the form of Mom, Glen, and the Curring clan.

“It’s okay, Rick,” Jude
said. “Sam and Jeff just love Miss Beth, don’t you?” She held a cherub in each
arm, and they cooed through drool-laced smiles.

“And I love them, too,” Mom
said, and tickled the twins, causing fits of giggles. My mother’s want of
grandkids rivaled Catherine’s desire to become pregnant in ferocity, but as the
reports of Aunt Flo’s monthly visits persisted, jabs about the Baby Making
Machine transformed into sage, motherly advice about ‘giving it time’ and ‘Rome
not being built in a day’.

Quite proud of himself,
Glen had finally found the angel my mom had been harping him about. The doorbell
rang as I placed it atop the tree.

“I’ll get it,” Rob
called. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and opened the door. “Hey, guys. This
is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you were coming.”

“It was a last minute
thing. We heard there was free eggnog and we couldn’t pass that up,” Bill replied
from the foyer. “It’s snowing like a mother f—”

“Bill,” came a high
female voice. “Watch your language. The kids are here.”

“Woops. Sorry.” Bill and
Angela walked into the house, shaking snow off their jackets.

Catherine, full of
genuine cheer, gave them both hugs and kisses. “Hey, you two. Here, let me take
your coats.”

In an amazing turn of
events, Bill and Angela had become a couple. Their post-wedding reception night
out had turned into a series of dates, and they’d hit it off. What threw me
most was Angela didn’t conform to Bill’s type. My best friend had a habit of
placing looks, not personality, on a pedestal which would explain his revolving
door of women over the years. The prettier the face, the sexier the body, the
happier the Bill Henly. Angela turned all that on its ear. More Velma than
Daphne, she was cute in a bookish type of way. His new squeeze was short but
curvy, wore glasses, and had short brown hair, something I’d never believe
possible from the man who’d lived his life thinking the adage “blondes have
more fun” was in fact the Eleventh Commandment. Sweet, funny, and smart, Angela
never had a bad thing to say about anybody. I suppose it didn’t hurt that she
was a hellcat in bed. That’s according to Bill—I can’t speak from personal
experience.

“So. You and Angela, huh?
Getting pretty serious, buddy.” Bill and I had broken away from the festivities
to grab a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Blustery wind blew ice particles and
snow against the window above the sink. It was looking like a White Christmas this
year.

“Nuts, right? I’m really
into this one, Rick. There’s something about her I can’t put my finger on.
She’s different than the others I’ve dated. It’s kind of scary.”

“Could it be that she’s
smarter than a box of hammers, unlike your usual bang buddies?”

“That may very well be
the case, my good man. Never dated girls with such fancy book learnin’ ‘afore.”

“Except for Cat.”

“And you saw how long
that lasted. Angela’s more willing to put up with my shit, God knows why. She
also does this thing with her—”

I held up a hand. “I
really don’t need to know, Bill.”

“Pussy.”

“Okay,” I sighed, my male
propensity to know all smutty details getting the better of me. “Lay it on me.”
He whispered something filthy in my ear, the likes of which I’ll not repeat. My
eyes went wide. “No shit?”

“No shit.” He nodded to
the living room where Cat tickled Sam and Jeff, her face lit up brighter than a
thousand Christmas trees. “She really dotes on those kids, huh?”

“Loves them to death.”

“You two still having
trouble with … you know what?”

I shrugged “It’s taking
longer than we’d thought. We’re staying the course, though. As long as it
takes, buddy. As long as it takes.”

Mom’s voice drifted in
from the living room with all the subtlety of a typhoon: “Did I ever tell you
about the Christmas when Richard was five? He drank a whole bottle of food
coloring. Pooped green for a week.”

They laughed. I groaned.

“Shit, I better get out
there before she does irreparable damage.”

Bill patted me on the
back in mock sympathy. “I feel for you, buddy. I really do.”

My first Christmas
morning as a married had arrived. That’s a pretty big milestone when you think
about it. There would be more Christmases to come—not nearly enough—but the
first always ranks amongst the most special.

I woke up alone. The
alarm clock read seven-thirty. Figuring Catherine must already be downstairs, I
roused myself out of bed.

“Merry Christmas, Ricky!”
She greeted me in the foyer with a hug and a kiss, and ran her fingers through
my rumpled hair. “Nice bed head.”

“Hey, you. Merry
Christmas. You’re up awful early. How long have you been awake?”

“Not long.” Her smile was
a mile wide. We both loved Christmas, never denying that we were nothing more
than a pair of overgrown children, but Catherine was more excited than usual.
She
must have gotten me something really good
, I thought. “C’mon. Let’s go open
our presents.”

We sat in front of the
tree. I always liked to get the lay of the land before I opened up presents. As
a kid, I’d mastered the art of separating boring shit like clothes and socks
from what had to be the really good stuff. While I scanned, I noticed something
the size and shape of a toothbrush wrapped in bright red paper jutting out prominently
next to the ‘First Christmas In Our New Home’ ornament Mary Jo had given us last
year

“This wasn’t in the tree
last night.” I reached for it but Catherine stopped me.

“Uh uh uh,” she said,
eyes gleaming. “Open that one last.”

After a flurry of shredding
wrapping paper, destroying bows, and making our way through both the presents
under the tree and those in the stockings, one last gift remained: the peculiar
item nestled in the branches. Catherine took it from its perch and handed it to
me.

“Okay,” she said. “Now
you can open this one.”

“What
is
this?” I
shook it close to my ear, trying to divine its contents. “A toothbrush? Is this
some kind of hint about my dental hygiene?”

“No, dork. Open it and
find out.” She seemed ready to jump out of her skin.

“Okay, okay. Relax,
Ralphie.” I tore open the wrapping paper and found …

A white stick of sorts.
Nope. Not a toothbrush.

Not even close.

“Is this what I think it
is?”

She nodded excitedly. “Mmm
hmmm.”

I looked at the item
again and my eyes fixed on the small, round window in the middle … and the even
smaller digital plus sign within it that stood out like a beacon against the
background.

“Really?” The word came
out slow, measured.

“Really.”

“Really really?”

She laughed and threw her
arms around me. “Really really. I’m pregnant, Ricky.”