Putting Makeup on Dead People (17 page)

“Fine, I’ll get rid of it. Just don’t tell on me.” She steps outside and returns a few seconds later sans cigarette.

“Okay. Mrs. Mahoney?”

“The one and only.” She looks from my toes to my head and shakes her head. “If you don’t mind my saying, you look awful. Maybe you should get a different job.”

I’m used to dazed and weepy, which is how most people have walked in here in the last few months. But this I am not expecting. Since I have no idea how to respond, I pull out an old industry standard Mr. Brighton uses. “Let’s go into the sitting room.”

I’m guessing she’s right about my looking awful, because that’s exactly how I feel—tired and in need of narcotics. As she chooses a cream-colored armchair in the sitting room, I hope Delia’s okay and that Mr. Brighton will be back soon.

Situated on one end of the blue sofa catty-corner from her chair, I explain Mr. Brighton’s emergency. I say, “So I’m happy to answer any questions, if I can. Do you, um, have any?” I open the brown leather binder on my lap to Mr. Mahoney’s page.

“I’ve got a million of them.” Nora Mahoney winks. “Here’s one: what’d you do today?” She reaches for her pack of menthols and then pushes it back into her purse. She smiles. “And call me Nora.”

“Okay, Nora,” I say slowly. “Don’t you want to talk about the arrangements?”

She looks at me like,
What the hell do you think?
I see her holding her face together, shoulders crunched up toward her neck. If I were her, I probably would want a change of subject too.

Part of me knows that talking about the arrangements is not what Nora needs at this moment. She just needs a break. And since I have a fresh assortment of distractions available, I say, “Tasted cakes for my brother’s wedding, fought with this guy I’m dating, and found out my mom has a secret boyfriend. And my brother’s fiancée doesn’t even like cake. She wants to have fruit cups.”

Nora’s shoulders relax a little. “Well, you’ve got to have a cake. They’re traditional.”

“Oh.” I’m not in the mood for another argument about wedding cake or anything else. And I certainly don’t want to debate with this lady who’s just lost her husband. I look down at the open binder and feel guilty for talking about myself. “I could help you pick some nice holy cards.”

She leans back in the chair. “Tell me everything about the wedding. I’m sure Fruit Cup’s got a real winner planned.”

I make my voice as gentle as I can. “We really are here for you.”

“I don’t care about any of it,” she says sharply, and closes her eyes. “I just want it done. You pick it all. Tell Mr. Brighton the medium price for everything—Rory loved averages.” The edge of her voice softens into a sigh. “Now a good fight—that’s what I love. Would you tell me about yours?” I can hear the
please
without her saying it. I know what it’s like to need distraction.

“Average it is.” I make a note for myself on Rory Mahoney’s paperwork to have Mr. Brighton put together a medium-priced profile. “I told him about my mom’s new boyfriend, and he didn’t get why I was upset. I think I freaked him out. And he lied to me so he could get off the phone.”

She laughs a hacking laugh that ends in a cough. She wipes her eyes. “Honey, there’s always something wrong with them. He probably doesn’t know how to do laundry either.”

“That would be two things.”

“And there’s a lot they don’t get. I’ve got news for you: they might never get what they don’t get. Rory left me alone too much with our kids. He snored and he clipped his toenails in the kitchen.”

I hold the brown binder to my chest and cross my legs. I’m not sure how this is comforting.

“He did all that, and he did other things. Every week he set out the Lifestyle section of the paper for me with an X and an O scrawled on top of it. And he’d bring home cinnamon buns from Ralph’s on the corner just because it was Thursday, they were fresh, and he knew I liked the smell. He was a jackass, and he wasn’t. And I loved him.”

“Tim says nice things sometimes.” I look down. “But sometimes I’m not sure he’s on this planet.”

“It’s not all or nothing, honey. It’s usually everything and something else.”

“Were you happy with Rory?”

“That motherfucker, are you kidding?”

I almost gasp with the sudden urge to tell her not to speak ill of the dead.

She lets out a long cackle. “Oh, lighten up. I’m joking. And now that Rory kicked it, maybe I’ll get myself a young stallion, just like your mother.”

I notice my mouth is hanging open, and I close it. I’ve never heard someone talk like this about a dead person, particularly one she knew and loved. Clearly, Nora loved Rory, but she’s not sweeping his shortcomings under the rug either. And I wonder how helpful it is to idealize the dead. Maybe that actually keeps people from being in real life.

Nora licks her lips and sits forward. “All right, I feel better now. Let’s look at holy cards.”

By the time we’ve picked holy cards and talked about the service a little, Mr. Brighton is back, out of breath and apologizing to Nora.

“No problemo,” Nora says. “Everything okay?”

“She just burned her finger on the stove. Greta made it sound worse than it was. She’ll be fine.”

Mr. Brighton takes over, and I let my brain turn off for a while. I know I’ll need to have my wits about me tonight.

O
n the way to dinner, I stop at the Kroger, thinking I should bring something. After wandering around, not sure what to pick, I decide to get myself some tangerine gum. Next to me at the self-checkout with a bunch of carrots and some green juice is Charlie McIntyre. “Hello stranger,” he says. “How’s the death business?”

“Good,” I say. I’m finding I can’t help but smile whenever Charlie’s around. “How’s school?”

Charlie tells me he got asked to be the student representative on the environmental task force at UD and that he loves his classes. We both finish buying our stuff and stand past the checkout for a minute. The automatic doors open and shut a few times. I look at my watch.

“Don’t tell me,” he says. “You’ve got to go. You’re on a date.”

“I wish.” I put the gum in my purse. “I’m going to my mom’s for dinner. To meet her new boyfriend.”

“That’s big.” Charlie looks down at his juice and back up at me. “You okay?” I nod, and before I can walk away, he hugs me and whispers, “Good luck. I’ll be thinking about you.”

When I walk through the door, I can still feel where Charlie whispered into my right ear. But now I also hear Barbra Streisand singing there, and I smell something reminiscent of meat loaf. I think of that condition
synesthesia,
how certain senses blend over into each other so that the sound of Barbra Streisand might taste exactly like meat loaf. In some ways, that makes sense to me. What doesn’t make sense is Mom cooking meat loaf for some guy named Roger. I look around what should be familiar territory and feel like I’m at a haunted house. I wonder when the middle-aged boyfriend creature will jump out with a chain saw.

“Is that you, Donna?” Mom calls.

Before I can answer, she’s out in the hallway kissing me on the cheek. I can smell her White Shoulders perfume mingled with the meat loaf. Baked onions with a floral bouquet—Mom’s scent of seduction. She wears a white V-necked blouse and a long strand of pearls. Her gray silky skirt rests above her knees, revealing panty hose, which she only wears for church.

“Am I underdressed?” I ask, looking down at my jeans and sandals.

“You look just fine,” Mom says. “Roger’s in blue jeans too.”

Behind Mom, B rolls his eyes. “Hey there.”

“I know you.” I hug him.

In my ear he whispers, “I like your blue jeans.”

“Shut up.” I pull out of the hug. “Where’s Gwen? And Linnie?”

“Gwen couldn’t make it. Linnie’s in the family room with Roger,” Mom says. “And I need to get back to the kitchen.”

“I’ll be in to help,” I tell her.

She smiles and walks off.

I decide I’d like to stay out here in the hallway as long as I can. “So, how was the rest of cake day?”

“Gwen decided to compromise. Cake with berries.” B grins at me and then stops grinning. “You didn’t need to take off like that.”

“Sorry. I was freaked out.”

“Well, be nice tonight,” B says, pushing me toward the family room. “I’ll bring you some iced tea.”

My stomach knots as I stand still and alone in the hallway. Should I stay or should I go now?

“Donder, come meet Roger,” Linnie calls.

“Okay.” I take slow steps in that direction.

In the family room, Linnie sits on our big squishy green couch. This month her hair sparkles like some kind of metallic cherry, and she’s wearing it in long braids that I think make her look like Pippi Longstocking.

Suddenly, I can see Linnie as a baby, sitting on Dad’s lap on our old couch, the mustard-colored one with the orange-and-brown stripes. I remember the scratchy carpet on my knees while I leaned on Dad’s legs, how soft Linnie’s little fist felt curled around my index finger, and how Dad’s voice rumbled low through my ears as he sang
“Ciao, ciao, bambina”
to my baby sister and me.

Looking at Linnie, I miss her smaller self and our old couch, and I feel my chest tighten as I see the tall man sitting next to her, who is actually even more gorgeous than I remember. I cross my arms and study the long black ponytail with shiny silver streaks, resting against the most beautiful skin I’ve ever seen. Kind of coppery, kind of like a latte. He’s barefoot, and his feet are beautiful too.

“Donna.” Standing, he looks at me with amber-colored eyes, and holds out his hand. “I’m Roger.”

I find I’m at a loss for speech, and Linnie kicks my leg with her left combat boot. I blush and shake Roger’s hand. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

“No trouble,” Roger says. “Come sit with us.” He’s so relaxed, like he’s right at home.

If I were a wild animal, I believe I would growl or at least snarl, just a little. “I have been here before, you know,” I mumble.

Roger nods and sits, saying nothing. He knows.

I almost sit on the floor and lean against the love seat, like I usually would, but I don’t want to be lower than Roger. I grab a straight-backed chair from Mom’s craft table and pull it up to the couch. As I sit, B brings me iced tea, and I wish it was whatever pale brown liquid with ice he’s got in his short glass.

Once we’re all sitting, and the quiet feels weird, I say, “So, you teach yoga?”

“You’re welcome to come,” Roger says. “I teach Wednesday and Sunday mornings at seven.”

“I can’t this week, but I’ll totally be there sometime,” Linnie says, and kicks me again with her boot, a gesture my shins and I are getting tired of. And I’m noticing something else. She doesn’t seem quite so sullen. She looks, if I dare say it, like she’s glad to be here. “And I’ll bring Donna.”

I scoot my chair a few inches away from my sister. “Sorry, I don’t get up that early.”

B takes a drink of what I’m guessing may be just whiskey and ice. He crunches a piece of the ice in his teeth. “So, Roger, what else do you do other than yoga?” If I’m not mistaken, my brother might be feeling a little territorial himself.

Roger pulls his legs up and sits cross-legged on the couch, flexibly folded. “I cook, I dance.”

“Maybe you could give B lessons,” I say. “That way he won’t embarrass himself at his wedding.”

Roger laughs. “I’d be happy to.”

Mom comes in and sits on the arm of the couch next to Roger. “What about the wedding?”

Linnie smirks. “Roger’s going to teach B how to dance.”

B crunches another piece of ice.

Mom smiles. “He’s a great dancer.” She and Roger look at each other, and something intimate passes between their eyes. Roger touches her arm, and she blushes.

Mom and Dad loved to dance, and apparently she’s found a new partner. All of a sudden, I wonder what else she’s doing with her new partner. I feel dizzy, like I should sit down, but I’m doing that already.

“Awesome,” Linnie says. “What’s your favorite dance?”

“The tango, of course.” He smiles and squeezes Mom’s arm. “Although I can’t do it very well.”

“Then how can it be your favorite?” B asks this like a TV detective who’s just trapped the culprit in a lie.

Breathing deeply, Roger moves his hand from Mom’s arm and folds his hands in the center of his lap. He’s not letting B get to him, a skill I wish I could acquire.

But right now I don’t have that skill, and I do understand Nora Mahoney’s love for a good knock-down, drag-out. I say to B, “You can’t play football, but you love that.”

“Shut up, Donder.”

“Well, it’s true.”

In the background, the Streisand album has reached the duet with Donna Summer. I worry that the needle is stuck on “enough is enough is enough,” but then I remember that’s just the song. The wailing voices seem to be tying sturdy sailor knots in the already tense spots on my neck.

Linnie scooches forward and sits on the edge of her seat. “Roger, would you like to see Mom’s picture table?”

“I’m sure he’s seen it before,” I say, and look at Mom. “Roger’s been over before, right?”

“Yes he has,” Mom says sharply.

Roger walks out of the living room toward the hallway, where Mom has a long, high table filled with stand-up photo frames of all of us and the odd people we’re related to. I used to hate getting dusting as a weekend chore because it meant picking up each of those frames and running a cloth over them one by one. One Saturday morning in June, when I was about ten and grumbling to myself and my bottle of Windex, Dad said, “Hey, this is your heritage. It’s okay to spend a little time on it.” He was carrying a cup of coffee and had the newspaper tucked under his arm.

“But I want to read my book in the backyard.”

He glanced at his paper and nodded at me. Then he walked away, and I went back to resentfully spraying and wiping.

A minute later he came back with an extra rag and started helping me. “We can get it done faster this way. I want to go to the backyard too.”

It actually took us twice as long because Dad started telling me stories about Uncle Lou and him getting in trouble with Nonna. But I didn’t mind.

Tonight, Mom looks at B and then at me and doesn’t say anything. Her blush has changed to flush, and her lips are set, even, and angry. She follows Roger out of the room.

Linnie looks at B. “Dude, what are you doing?”

“Yeah,” I say. “You made Mom mad.”

Linnie turns her glare to me. “And you haven’t been any better.”

B snickers.

I huff defensively. “What do you mean?”

“Both of you need to stop acting like assholes.” Linnie shakes her head. “Don’t you want Mom to be happy? In case you haven’t noticed, she really likes this guy. This is a big deal for her. So play nice, fuckers.” She stomps out.

B and I look at each other. “I should not drink any more whiskey,” B says.

“Yeah, you’re the one who told me to be nice when I came in.”

“You’re right. She’s right. It’s just weirder than I thought.”

Of course I want Mom to be happy and not lonely. But it is weird, and I don’t want a new Dad. His shoes are big in my mind, and Roger’s bare feet, beautiful though they are, can’t fill them. My head spins. “Since you decided to stop drinking, maybe I’ll start.”

“That’s probably not a good idea either. I’m going to get some fresh air; I’ll be right back.”

In the kitchen I find Roger pouring some wine for himself. I eye the whiskey bottle, but reach for the iced tea.

“So, I hear you’re studying to be a mortician. That’s a pretty intriguing job.”

I take a long drink and tell myself I should say thank you. Instead I say, “Do you love her?”

I feel like I’m channeling Dad interviewing Dave Parker when he came over to make a model of the Amazon River with me in seventh grade. I remember Dad looking hard at skinny, oblivious Dave in this very kitchen and actually asking, “What are your intentions with my Donna?”

Dave Parker swallowed hard and said, “To not spill paint on her skirt?” Which I thought was a pretty good answer, considering.

At this point, I have higher expectations. Roger isn’t in seventh grade, and he’s dating my mom. He sets the wine bottle on the counter by the sink and breathes as he does it. I’m used to people answering right away, but Roger seems to pause before he says anything. The silence makes me squirmy, but if Roger can pause, then so can I.

“Yes, I do. Am I
in
love with her? I don’t know.” He stares at me with those amber eyes. “Is that okay, to not know?”

To say no seems ludicrous. And yet I’m not really sure. I don’t know if I’d feel better if Mom was having a crazy fling or if she was totally in love again. “I don’t want Mom to get hurt.” Although I’m not sure my motives are that pure. I’m really worried about myself, which Roger can probably tell through some kind of yoga mind-reading technique.

“Neither do I.” Roger’s eyes soften. “Your mother’s an amazing woman. She’s kind. And beautiful. And she’s got some great kids who obviously love her.” Behind his yogic composure, I see something I recognize—wanting to be liked.

I nod. I realize Roger’s making an effort, and I’m being a jerk. So I do something I think Roger and I can both get behind. I hold up my glass. “To Mom,” I say, and we clink and drink. To Mom.

The rest of the night goes a little easier. B is his jovial self again, I decide not to say much, and we all eat what turns out to be fake meat loaf. Mom made it with something called Ground Beephe, since Roger’s a vegetarian. When she spells it for me to explain it’s not actually beef, she stares at me in such a way that says I might be next for the slaughterhouse if I say anything.

Even though the Ground Beephe has a bit of a rubbery chew to it, I keep my mouth shut and spoon on extra tomato sauce. I discover that Roger knows Cherokee and Japanese folktales for every occasion and tells a decent joke. Still, watching him take a bite of Mom’s peach pie, made with actual peaches and which I know Dad loved, makes me want to snatch his fork and put it through his hand.

After dessert, Linnie heads to her room to call Snooter. Roger insists that he’ll help Mom with dishes, so B and I decide to head out. When Mom and Roger walk us to the door, B shakes Roger’s hand, and I’m not sure what to do. In our family, we hug often—to say hello, good-bye, nice to see you since you came back from your bathroom break. But I don’t want to hug Roger. He should be leaving too. And yet there he is, with his arm around Mom. I’ve never seen anyone other than Dad in that spot, that way.

I kiss Mom quickly; I don’t even hug her. “Love you, Mom” and “Bye, Roger” are all I can muster without bursting into tears.

Saturday morning, Gwen calls and asks if I’ll help her address save-the-date postcards next week.

“Sure.” Addressing postcards sounds like a glitter- and satin-free endeavor.

“I just need to get a few more addresses. For my cousins and your Aunt Sylvia and Roger.”

“Roger—like Roger who was at our house last night?”

“Yeah. Oh, and I’m so sorry I missed dinner. I had some plans I couldn’t cancel with my girlfriends.”

“You’re going to invite Roger?”

“B and I thought it would be a good idea. That way your mom has a date, right?”

“I barely know him.”

“You’ll just have to bring your own date, then.” Gwen giggles nervously.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea. But it’s your wedding.”

“I can bring it up to B again, I guess. If you think so.”