The Sweetheart Deal (5 page)

T
he night before the funeral, Matt MacKay opened Leo's casket for the only people who would see him for the last time: Audrey, the boys, Leo's parents and sister, Audrey's parents and brother, Kevin Gallagher, my father, and me.

When I saw the suit again, I floundered for composure following the shock I hadn't anticipated.
You can still make the suit.
While helping Audrey buy it was something I couldn't forget, in the days since, I must have suspended the memory the way people do during such times. My only thought was that Leo's body dominated the clothes with far more authority than I had, and I had to remind myself they were the same ones. The suit did look good—it fucking better have—and although I couldn't say Leo looked good, I had expected him to look far worse. The work the funeral home had done to restore him as completely as possible was evident. And yet despite all the mortician's care and cosmetic mastery, it was only the final rendition of Leo—not him at all anymore—and I could look at it for only so long.

It was my father who made me think of doing it. After my mother's viewing, with Kate and me beside him, my father had taken off his wedding band and slid it onto my mother's left ring finger—Kate had inherited our mother's rings—and with that gesture he transitioned to no longer being married, by surrendering the symbol that he had been for forty-one years to accompany his dead beloved into the ground.

So before we'd left the house, I had taken the signed promise out of my rolled socks and tucked it in the inside pocket of my jacket, and if I'd had the discreet opportunity—which I didn't, as we were all there together the whole time sharing our last looks—I would have put the note in Leo's jacket pocket, returning it, to rid myself of the physical thing in the hope that doing so would enable me to forget about it. But since I didn't have the chance to accomplish something so furtive, all I could do was periodically finger it throughout the night, making sure it was still there. And because I never had a chance to do what I'd wanted to, which would have involved at least a minimum of physical contact, I didn't know how to otherwise touch Leo for the last time, or where, so I didn't touch him at all, not even to graze his hand with mine, and after the chance to do something had passed, I berated myself for the inability to muster what his family had. The boys had each touched their father one last time, and Audrey, shaking from inaudible sobs, had leaned into the casket and pressed her cheek against Leo's. For the rest of the night I had no one to share my insignificant private shortcoming with and no way to lessen its hold.

The honor guard who'd been assigned stood vigil for the calling hours, which had been scheduled for two but almost exceeded four, the line of people waiting spilling out the front door and curling around the block, appearing to never shorten. In lieu of an open casket, all there was to see of Leo were the three framed photographs on display: a group photo of the Station Twenty-Five men, one of him and Audrey and the boys that wasn't recent, and Leo's professional department portrait.

The next morning dawned with clouds, and their smudge clung, blocking the sun even as the hours of the day pressed on. We were all up early, taking the quiet, heavy steps to prepare for mass at eleven. Leo and Audrey's parents, Maureen and Gabe, and my father all arrived, dressed and ready, sitting or standing until they were given a job to do. When I handed them a list and directions, Marty, Glenn, and my father drove to New Seasons for bagels and came back with too much food—pastries, muffins, cinnamon rolls, and the bagels that no one touched. Libby and Claudia tied their grandsons' ties, and made the boys sit with them. The boys were subdued and exercised restraint with each other, and let their grandmothers fawn over them. Everyone distracted one another with whatever means available.

I hadn't shaved since I'd arrived, and my hands shook that morning as I did for the first time.
I can't do this
.
I just won't shave. Fuck, I have to shave.
I tried to slow down and take my time but gave myself three bleeders anyway.

We got to the church at ten. Kevin and Alyssa Gallagher and their three girls met us there, and starting at ten-fifteen, the firefighters arrived—the other seven pallbearers among them—and occupied the pews at the back with respect and quiet valor, waiting to be invited closer to the front, the off-duties all in Class A, a hat in every lap, the on-shifts, ready for a call should one come, badge shrouds to a man. Leo's captain, Dave Bradley, and his wife, Violet, came early too, and after talking with Audrey, showed the same deference, waiting to be told what to do.

In the half hour before mass, the clouds that had threatened rain surrendered to bleak sun that never brightened but maintained its weak, consistent light for the rest of the day, and by eleven o'clock, when the procession started, the church looked filled to capacity. Kevin read the first reading, from The Book of Wisdom, and the first words,
The just, though they die early, shall be at rest
,
waylaid my attempts to control my emotions, so I was already weeping when I began the second reading, the Twenty-Third Psalm, which I managed to get through, my grief and perseverance each warring to get the upper hand the whole time I read.

After the committal, at the reception at the Pittock Mansion, I stood or sat with my father when I wasn't with Audrey, and when I wasn't, her parents, Leo's parents, or Alyssa and Kevin Gallagher were. Erin and I made sure the boys ate something, and when it was time to leave two hours later, she didn't know where any of them were. I finally found the three of them out on the grounds of the mansion sitting on one of the benches that looked east out over the city and toward the mountains. There was nothing good about the day, but I was grateful that while the boys sat, because of the overcast, they didn't have to see the mountain where their father had died.

Although the parking lot was at capacity and the guests who'd arrived late had a long walk back to their cars, when the reception was over, everyone behind the wheel seemed patient and kind, making generous spaces to wave in other drivers, no one bullying anyone else to be the first to get home. Before we got to Burnside, Audrey asked the limo driver to wait, so we did, until behind the very last car, the men from Station Twenty-Five drove their truck, followed by the engine, down the hill.

I
thought the calling hours would never end, and that we might stand there all night until the last, patient mourners, after waiting so long, were able to share their condolences just in time for us to leave and go directly to the funeral. There were so many people, strangers I'd never seen before among the hundreds of faces I recognized—police officers, paramedics, firefighters and their families, and families from the school, the church, the street and neighborhood, the boys' preschool, the sports teams—they all waited for as long as it took for their own turn to talk to us.

I didn't think I'd sleep the night before the funeral, but the few hours I did took the edge off enough that I didn't feel so raw and like I couldn't cope—but barely. I didn't know how I could have gotten through it without Erin. I couldn't have. That morning she asked me if I wanted a Xanax—she was a terrible flier—and I'd told her no, and sobbed in the bathroom alone despite the whiskey I nursed while I showered and dressed and dried my hair. There wasn't anything that could dull my sorrow, or enough of anything to blunt the ordeal of burying my husband.

Erin wouldn't let me do a thing that day, acting as the hostess in her own house refusing offers from helpful guests. She scrambled eggs while the coffee brewed, one pot after the other, as the mugs were drained and refilled. She cooked and fed everyone who would eat. Her son, Michael, had been Brian's best friend since kindergarten, bringing us together in the process, and over those eight years she had earned the right to take over and to take care of me. Since Leo died, she had been there at least once a day, bringing Michael with her, and sometimes her nine-year-old daughter, Rory, taking charge after people started to drop off meals. She had marked all the containers' lids with the dates and stacked them in the basement chest freezer, with the oldest ones on top. There were too many flowers to manage—they overwhelmed me—and after covering every possible surface in the living and dining rooms, Erin ferried the ones that came later to the addition, a room I avoided. She put the arrangements on boards laid over the floor joists around the room's stark, skeletal perimeter; then when they passed their prime, as soon as they started dropping leaves, she got them out of the house and into the compost bin.

After we had all gotten through the morning and it was time to leave for the church, everyone filed out of the house and piled into the limos the funeral home had sent along with the hearse, but Andrew wasn't with them. I found him in bed, fully clothed, his shoes still on, bunkered in his comforter, which I peeled away as I coaxed him out as best I could. “Andrew, I would give almost anything right now to crawl in there with you,” I said. “But I can't do this without you. Please, sweetie, you have to come.”

With so much grace and kindness it humbled me, Kevin Gallagher had helped Father John and me plan the funeral. Kevin presented the decisions and desires the department offered on its behalf, provided they were acceptable to me. Together we chose the most reverent and ceremonial options. The men had put up the bunting at the station. The protocols reminded me of the rigorous rules for coronating European royalty: they seemed as relevant to my life, and to Leo's life, and who Leo had been, as a monarch's taking the throne in another country.

“It's everything we wanted to do for him,” Kevin said. “I know it's a lot of pomp and splendor. Thank you for being okay with it. He deserves the best we have to give him.”

And without spending more time than I could bear, I picked the plot for both of us in the cemetery Matt MacKay had helped me select. Years or hours from this time—I didn't know which to hope for—I would be in my own casket next to Leo. I ordered a dark granite headstone with a Celtic cross atop a base, under which Leo's name, birth and death dates, and five words would be engraved:

By eleven o'clock, when the procession started, the church was as full as on Christmas and Easter—even the balcony was packed. Kevin read the first reading, from The Book of Wisdom, and I sobbed, tucked in to myself, from the first words,
The just, though they die early, shall be at rest
,
my parents and the boys close to me on either side. Garrett read the Twenty-Third Psalm, his voice breaking up as soon as he started. In the church and school parking lots, the fire department's trucks were queued side by side. The engine and truck from Station Twenty-Five, Leo's house, were parked in front of the others.

Leo's death was a loss not just for our family but also for the community he'd served, and the procession to the cemetery—where his captain, Dave Bradley, spoke at the graveside—clogged traffic. As the hearse, and fire engines and trucks, and cars with headlights on all passed the perpendicular streets, drivers whose routes had been disrupted stood outside their cars and saluted, or placed their hand over their heart, and remained that way until the motorcade passed and they could resume driving. Of everything that day, I didn't know if seeing those respectful strangers had been the most harrowing, or if it had been the eight pallbearers—strong but compromised men, Garrett the only civilian among them—who carried Leo between them with both the tenderness of holding a newborn and the determination of moving a mountain, all while the bagpipes played.

Dave and Violet Bradley, who had no children of their own, had insisted on having the reception following the committal at the Pittock Mansion. Because they were longtime donors—part of the elite Pittock Patron membership specifically—not only would they not take no for an answer, but because of how much money they had donated to the estate and since she was a distant Pittock descendant, Violet appealed to both the Pittock Mansion Society and to Portland Parks and Recreation and got them to close the mansion to the public that afternoon—an unprecedented allowance. Violet orchestrated all the catering, and while capacity had been daunting at the church, it was another in the Pittock's oval social hall. I thought the fire code was clearly breached, but no one seemed to give it a second thought on account of the organization that would have issued the violation being the one committing the infraction.

The winding road from Burnside up Barnes to Pittock was wide enough for one truck not passing another vehicle coming down from the top until it reached the fire road. So only the engine and truck from Station Twenty-Five drove up, and the other on-duties headed back to their stations. Once the upper lot was full, the overflow of cars was sent to the lower areas until they were full too, and some people had to walk up almost all the way from Burnside, from the closest spots they could find. The bar was ample, and the on-shifts who were still dressed at the ready nursed their tonic waters and club sodas, and the off-duties remained stoic, even as they got sloppy.

At the top of the marble staircase, before we descended the flight down to the social room, Violet Bradley, Garrett, the boys, and I stopped at the grand leaded windows, and Violet pointed east.

“When it's clear, you can see all the mountains,” she said. I knew her attempt at conversation was benign and her carelessness was unintentional. “The Pittocks had exquisite views as far as the eye could see.”

Even with the sun, the visibility was still not clear enough to see the peak of Mount Hood.
From how many wakes can you see the place where the person died?
I knew the mountain was there, but I was glad it was shrouded that day.

“How nice for the Pittocks,” I said. And we continued down the stairs.

All I had to do was talk and hug and cry for, or let cry for me, everyone who came. For that whole time one of my parents or Leo's sat or stood with me, and then Garrett, or Kevin or Alyssa Gallagher. As generous as the Bradleys and all the people who had come had been—generosity that I'd been forced to accept—I couldn't wait to get out of the Pittock Mansion with its mocking view of the mountains and go home. When it was time to leave and I couldn't find the boys, I asked Garrett to look for them, and after he brought them inside we all got back into the limo for the ride home.

Although we were the first to leave, I asked the driver to wait when we got to the bottom, before turning onto Burnside. I wanted to see everyone drive away until the very last car left, and the truck from Twenty-Five, followed by the engine, finally came down the hill. Then we drove away from the estate too, close to three o'clock, and I thought,
Did you see how many people came to your party?

Erin got to the house ahead of me and waited for everyone, even though it was only us, and it was like a replay of the morning, only with different food and now with booze. She had brewed coffee again and opened bottles of wine and put mixers next to liquor on the sideboard in the dining room and filled the ice bucket. When I walked in she offered me two glasses—a glass of red and a tumbler of whiskey—and I took the wine and she kissed me on the cheek and went back to heating casseroles and slicing meat and cheese and opening boxes of crackers.

Erin and Garrett took care of everything, and close to seven—it was coming up on a twelve-hour day—after everyone left, my house and kitchen showed no evidence of what had happened. My parents, Leo's parents, Maureen, Gabe, and Garrett's father, Julian, went back to the hotel.

Garrett's father left the next day, and Leo's and my family the day after that. It wasn't until they did that I could finally let go.

Dealing with Leo's parents, I suspended my own loss. I loved Glenn and Libby, and Maureen and I were as close as sisters-in-law who live far apart and differently can be. While they were with me, their grief supplanted my own. Glenn and Libby had lost their older child and only son, and Maureen had never known the world without Leo.

My parents and Gabe had been their steadiest, best versions of themselves. They did everything that needed doing or tending, and took care of the boys, and the McGearys, until they'd done all they could. They had loved Leo, but they respected that the loss was the McGearys', and mine. My father made many runs to the market, and Gabe handled the phone calls. My mother kept us fed, and although we talked, she mostly touched me—stroked my hair, rested her hand on the middle of my back, squeezed my forearm—any time she was close to me.