Probation (28 page)

Douglas, his voice, tight, high pitched, scared, calls out to me, startling my brother-in-law.

“Jesus. Jesus Christ,” my brother-in-law says, realizing he’s barged into some sordid little assignation, disgusted, looking at me as if I’m an insect to be crushed under the sole of his size thirteen shoe. “Fucking Jesus. Unbelievable!”

“Go,” I say, my voice calm, under control. “Leave now.”

He doesn’t know whether to take a stand for all that’s decent or escape while he can, absolved of any further responsibility.

“Let Gina sleep in the morning. The arrangements have all been made. Everything’s taken care of. Just go.”

He pauses, straining to see beyond me, needing to have his worst suspicions confirmed.

“You sure? You okay?” he asks, wary, stalling.

“Yes, thanks for asking.”

I don’t move until I hear the front door close behind him. Douglas is fumbling around in the dark, afraid to come out where he can be seen. I wait for grief, pain, shock, some emotion to overwhelm me. I’ve spent months preparing for this moment, to gird myself for the kick in the stomach, the sharp blow to the throat, the lead pipes across my knees that would follow the final pronouncement. But the minutes pass and nothing. I say the words aloud, sure they’ll trigger an appropriate response. My mother’s dead. But here I stand, unchanged, feeling no different than five, ten minutes ago. I try to summon up an image of my mother. Her features are already vague, hazy, indistinct. I can’t remember the color of her eyes. Definitely not brown. But gray, green, hazel, pale blue? I thought I’d seared them into my memory, but they’re gone, lost forever. The next time I see her they’ll be sewn shut, never to be pried open again.

My thoughts wander back to the stoned boy stumbling in the grass. In a few hours, it will be morning and the sun will burn away the haze, the fog in my mind. There’ll be enough time to despair. But tonight, at least, I’m not alone.

“Douglas,” I call out. “Doug. It’s okay to come out.”

He emerges from the dark, backlit by the moon, shoes in hand, hesitant, afraid to throw caution to the wind.

“Can I stay here with you?” he asks again.

“Yes.”

I mean tonight. He thinks I mean longer. I’ll wait and break it to him in the morning. The bogeyman won’t be so scary then.

He follows me into the house and up the stairs. My twin bed can’t accommodate both of us and I lead him to my mother’s big queen bed, the one she shared with my father. He slumps on the mattress and smiles at me.

“I’m so tired,” he says.

“So am I.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll just sleep.”

“I wanted to give you the best blow job ever.”

He’s slurring his words, fumbling with his buttons. I turn back the sheets and help him wiggle out of his pants and pull off his socks. He lies on his back and watches me undress. He drapes his arm across my chest when I crawl in beside him. His head droops and he is asleep. I touch the port wine stain on his shoulder and count the birthmarks on his neck.

He’s far away, safe in Never Never Land, where lost boys live forever and never have to grow up. He doesn’t hear the angry little cell phone shrieking in the duffel bag downstairs. Somewhere out there, a driver is cruising the streets of Charlotte, searching for a boy in a nylon warm-up suit. I’m afraid Douglas’s not as lucky as Peter Pan and that his story won’t have a happy ending. Tomorrow night, the warm body next to me may be lying in an emergency room, beyond repair, just a few heartbeats away from being rolled to the morgue on a gurney.

Do not resuscitate.

No mechanical respiration.

No tube feeding or invasive form of nutrition or hydration.

No blood or blood products.

No form of surgery nor any invasive diagnostic procedures.

No kidney dialysis.

No antibiotics.

No codes.

No extraordinary efforts to sustain life.

But that’s a day away. Tonight he will sleep like a baby, the inevitable postponed until the sun rises. I’ll lie awake, haunted by my mother, with his warm body spooned into mine in the bed she shared with my father. We’ve both earned another precious day, and that’s as much as any of us can expect.

T
he forecast was on the mark. It’s still reasonably hot, it being summer in North Carolina, after all. But the temperature feels surprisingly comfortable after the Old Testament scourge of the past week. I’ve spoken to Regina and she’s agreed, begrudgingly, but without argument, to respect my wish to do this alone. I’m showered, shaved, gelled, deodorized, fortified with black coffee and a piece of rye toast before climbing the stairs to the bedroom. I lower myself on the mattress as Douglas, this perfect stranger, sleeps contentedly in my mother’s bed. Rise and shine, I say, sounding like her, gently waking him. I find a way to slip my name into my greeting, assuming he doesn’t remember it. He looks forlorn, like he was hoping to hide under the covers all day, when I tell him we need to be going. I’ve got to be somewhere, I apologize, I can’t drive him back to Charlotte. I insist he accept whatever’s in my wallet, a couple hundred, more than enough for the taxi to take him wherever he wants to go. He had a really great time, he says. He wants my number so he can call me when he gets a phone. The one he’s been using belongs to a friend. He gives me a friendly kiss and hops into the cab, his precious duffel bag held tight, talking excitedly on the cell, concocting some wild and improbable tale to explain going AWOL last night.

I’m wearing a blue suit and white shirt, dressed for the occasion this time, hoping to avoid the withering disapproval and arched eyebrows of M. Sweeney of M. Sweeney & Son. But it seems M. Sweeney is now resting comfortably in one of his top-of-the-line models. Sweeney the Son greets me in “business casual”: shirtsleeves, khakis, and boat shoes. The tables have turned, and Sweeney the Son, surprised by my gabardine and tie in these less formal times, is embarrassed and excuses himself, returning in a gold-buttoned navy blazer. Add epaulets and a visored cap and he’d pass for the majordomo of a yacht club.

The times, they are a-changing. Solemnity is outdated, even at a funeral parlor. The M. Sweeneys of tradition, dour and elegiac, church bells ringing out with every footstep, are asleep in the graveyard. Sweeney the Son has a difficult time repressing his cheerful good nature. Try as he might, gravity does not come easily to him. He bounces from casket to casket on the balls of his feet. He bubbles with enthusiasm as he describes the luxury extras of the better models, their plush interiors padded with creamy fabrics, with lifetime warranties against seepage and moisture.

Whose lifetime?

Mine?

Certainly not my mother’s.

Is there a money-back guarantee?

How would I collect? Do I pick up the phone in twenty years and schedule an exhumation to check on the state of preservation? Pay up, Sweeney! My mother doesn’t look as fresh as a daisy anymore!

Just a simple pine box. Nothing fancy. Nothing garish. Just plain and simple. That’s what I asked for back when I was a novice at this, touring the “showroom” in shorts and sneakers, not knowing if I was expected to rap the casket lids with my knuckles like I’d kick the tires of a new car. In the end, my father drove to heaven in the Lincoln Town Car of coffins. This time I have no delusions that a simple pine box will suffice.

I can’t tell M. Sweeney I want a container and nothing more. I don’t want to seem cheap and callow. I don’t want him thinking I’m mocking the dead. I won’t insist on the simple pine box. But I won’t be duped this time. I’m a savvy consumer now and won’t be bulldozed into squandering ten thousand dollars on the Mary, Queen of Heaven model. He’s wasting his time extolling its virtues, rhapsodizing over the craftsmanship, explaining the silkscreen technique used to imprint an image of the blue-veiled Virgin on the thick cushion inside the lid.

“No thank you,” I say politely. “I don’t think my mother envisioned spending eternity with the Mother of God’s nose planted in her belly button.”

Sweeney the Son can’t help laughing, but, afraid of appearing disrespectful, composes himself quickly. He relaxes when I laugh too.

“I have just what you’re looking for,” he says.

We settle on the Michelangelo, solid mahogany, with gold leaf trim and Pieta miniatures carved into the four corners of the lid. It’s dignified, beautiful even, a few steps above the middle of the line. A perfectly adequate container.

It’s barbaric, this ritual, dressing my mother in her Sunday best, tucking a rosary in her hands, slipping some precious object—a stuffed animal or a photo in a heart-shaped frame—under the blanket. I’d prefer cremation, but it isn’t an option. My mother suffered from a morbid fear of death by fire. My sister says she would come back to haunt me if I were to perpetrate the transgression of popping her into the toaster oven. I doubt it, but don’t see any reason to assume the risk. Anyway, it’s my own claustrophobia that makes me panic at the thought of the Michelangelo being slammed shut, sealed tight, and covered with earth.

Why can’t I just tie helium balloons to her ankles and wrists and let her float high in the blue skies? Why can’t she just drift until a strong wind comes along to sweep her into the stratosphere where a shroud of ice crystals will preserve her for all eternity in the deep freeze of space? Then I could spend my evenings studying the night skies, seeking my mother, Queen of Heaven, as she orbits the earth.

But no, it has to be into the ground where, the miracles of engineering and lifetime guarantees notwithstanding, she’s destined to rot. Fungus will cover her face and hungry microbes will strip her flesh to the white bone, leaving nothing but an anonymous, toothy grin, a memento mori, a prop for a cheesy horror movie.

The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out….

“Are you all right?” Sweeney the Son asks, drawing me out of my reverie. “Would you like water, an iced tea?”

“Water would be good,” I say.

“Maybe something a little stronger on the side?” he suggests.

The whiskey burns my throat, bringing tears to my eyes. Time to get back to business. The coffin is only the first item on the list. Her favorite dress, navy worsted with delicate red piping, waits in the garment bag. The pearls my father gave her on their thirtieth anniversary are in a small silk pouch in my pocket. Only for the viewing, I instruct. Certainly, he assures me. I’ve brought a recent photograph, taken just before the ravages of lymphoma became apparent. I tell him Forrest, my mother’s devoted Pekingese of a hairdresser, will be preparing her wig. We can’t bear the thought of my mother lying in state sporting a careless comb-over by some overweight matron with club hands. Of course, Sweeney the Son says, always willing to accommodate.

And the viewing, he asks, one night or two? Open or closed casket? Of course, immediate family will have an opportunity to view the deceased regardless of the decision.

Open? Closed? My claustrophobia dictates my decision. Open, of course. Don’t cheat her of any precious moments of air and light.

The death notice needs to be placed. The
Gaston Gazette
, of course. What about the Charlotte papers?

I think back to Christmas and my amazement at learning how many lives she touched.

Merry Christmas, Nathaniel. Was Santa good to you?

Oh, the best, Miz Nocera, the very best.

Yes, the
Charlotte Observer
too.

Sweeney the Son is every bit as efficient as his late father. He takes me in hand and walks me through every detail, answers every question, resolves every problem. Gratitude and exhaustion and the whiskey overwhelm me. Without thinking, I embrace him, thanking him for making this so easy. It’s impossible to imagine such intimacy with his austere father. Sweeney the Son, being a different breed, pats my back. He doesn’t need to speak; his touch conveys his empathy and sympathy. For one fleeting second, I consider burying my face in his neck and sobbing. But I resist. This is professional intimacy, with definite limitations and boundaries that cannot be crossed.

“Were you close?” he asks, withdrawing from my bear hug, careful not to convey discomfort and rejection.

“Yes,” I say, sounding uncertain.

I think so.

Were we?

Did she still feel close to me or did my selfishness and self-absorption, my unwillingness to feign interest in her anxiety and fears, disappoint her? I kept my distance, letting her words drop in the space between us, depriving her of the easy, intimate conversations of my childhood and youth. I couldn’t comfort her. I was constitutionally incapable of thinking of anything but my own misery. And worse yet, what will be impossible to live with, is that I made her last months more difficult, that I compounded the strain. My mother, bravely facing painful therapies and bleak outcomes, feared only one thing in the end.

Me.

I’m afraid to speak to him anymore. He gets angry at everything I say.

I assume it’s a lie, another pathetic effort by my sister to hurt me, revenge taken for my mother’s unconditional love for me. But there was no satisfaction in my sister’s eyes when she betrayed my mother’s confidence and broke her solemn promise to say nothing to me.

My sister is telling the truth.

Some essential part is missing in me. I know I have a heart, but it seems incapable of kindness. Sweeney the Son steps forward again, anticipating tears. He’s ready to offer a clean handkerchief and a palm on the shoulder. How easy it comes to him. I’d like to strap him to the embalming table behind those thick doors. I’d crack open his breastplate and search and probe until I found the little generator that pumps empathy and compassion into his soul. I’d snip it with the scalpel and bury it in ice and race to the emergency room, demanding a transplant. And when the sutures healed, I’d emerge a different person, whole, able to experience a full range of emotions.

“May I have the dress?” he asks.

“Yes, here,” I say, handing him the garment bag.

“Can I see her?” I ask.

“She’s not prepared,” he says.

“Please. I wasn’t with her when she died.”

He relents and, against his professional wisdom, agrees to allow me a few moments alone in the embalming room. He hovers on the other side of the door, wary, ready to spring into action at the first sign of rage or inconsolable grief. So I stand quietly, barely whispering, telling my mother I love her and begging for one last gift, mercy.

Maybe it’s lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the whiskey. Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me. Maybe it’s a miracle. I can never tell anyone. They’d think I was crazy. But my mother hears me and takes my hand and squeezes it, telling me to make my peace with the world.