The Dearly Departed

CHAPTER 6 The Dot

No-nonsense Mrs. Angelo, famous for adding figures in her head, who rarely climbed down from her stool at the cash register, did so to enfold Sunny in a bosomy hug. “It’s a miracle that you walked in here! We were just saying that we wanted to send some platters over; some sandwiches, some pasta salad, the tricolor rotini, and an assortment of cookies—we do anise and pignoli beautiful.”

“I wasn’t planning any kind of reception,” said Sunny.

“You have to invite people back to the house after the funeral. They want to be with each other.” She led Sunny to the booth next to the cash register, despite the fact that it was already occupied by a woman in a white tennis sweater and maroon velvet headband. The woman removed her reading glasses, folded them into hinged quarters, and offered her hand.

“Sunny? I’m Fran Pope. You don’t know me, but I directed your mother in Watch on the Rhine, and we are all just shattered.”

Sunny said, “Did you say Pope?”

“Like the pontiff. As in Pope Sand and Gravel. Your mother and I—”

“Are you Randall Pope’s mother?”

Mrs. Pope’s face brightened. “I certainly am! You know Randy?”

Sunny inhaled and exhaled before saying, “I was on the golf team with him. He was captain the year I joined.”

“Of course I knew that. Very small world. I think your mother knew the connection.”

“She certainly did,” said Sunny.

“I hope he was a good captain,” said Mrs. Pope.

Sunny said after a pause, “He was a good golfer.”

Beaming, Mrs. Pope said, “It was his spring sport, which you probably know. Football was his first love, and basketball was second. Mr. Pope was a football fanatic, but I liked the basketball games, because I got to watch them in a nice warm gym.”

Sunny opened a menu and said without looking up from it, “Your son found a dead carp floating in the brook—or what was euphemistically called the brook—and put it in my golf bag.” She plucked several napkins, one by one, from a dispenser and spread them on her lap. “At least I was ninety-nine percent sure it was Randy.”

Mrs. Pope blinked, took a sip from her cup, blotted her lips, and asked, “Did Bill Sandvik get in touch with you? Or Bill Kaufman? Someone was going to call you and ask if we—meaning the Players—could say a few words at the funeral. We thought either of the Bills would give a stunning eulogy.”

“That would be fine,” said Sunny. “I’m sure my mother would love it. Would have loved it …”

“Bill S. was her leading man a number of times and has a gorgeous speaking voice, but Bill K. is a freelance toastmaster. They may still be sorting it out.”

“Either,” said Sunny. “Or both.”

“Everyone was rocked by this tragedy. It touched everyone in town, directly or indirectly.”

“I’m beginning to see that,” said Sunny.

“Did you order?” Mrs. Pope asked her, accompanied by the snap of Mrs. Angelo’s fingers behind her. From the counter, The Dot’s one waitress barked, “What?”

“Winnie! Bring Sunny a menu.”

“Just coffee,” said Sunny.

“What if Gus scrambles you an egg or two?” asked Mrs. Angelo from her stool. “Or we have omelets now—Eastern, Western, or Hawaiian.”

Mrs. Pope confided, “When I went through this with my mother, I lost one dress size without even trying. And she died at eighty-eight. Not unexpected.”

“Still too young,” said Mrs. Angelo.

“Not in my mother’s case,” Mrs. Pope continued. “She was completely demented. But I know what you’re saying: You think you’re prepared, but you never are. And in your case, there’s an extra layer of tragedy—losing your only parent before you’re even …”

Sunny wasn’t sure where the unfinished sentence was supposed to lead. Her age? Her marital or professional status?

Mrs. Pope tried, “Thirty-three?”

“No, I was two years behind Randy. It’s the hair. People always think—”

“Well, of course! People are so unobservant. Your face is still the face in your yearbook picture.” She patted Sunny’s hand. “Mr. Pope and I take out a full-page ad in every King George Regional yearbook—Pope Sand and Gravel—so we get a courtesy copy.”

Sunny could see that Mrs. Pope, whose own hair was dyed a uniform chestnut, was counting the days until she could take the younger woman under her wing and advise her that gray is for aging hippies or the occasional over-fifty model whose silver hair is the very point.

“Tell me what I can do,” said Mrs. Pope. “There must be something I can help you with. Do you need a place to stay? Will the relatives need a place to freshen up?”

“I’m set,” said Sunny. “But thanks.”

“Randy lives on East Pleasant. You might know his wife.”

“I do.”

“It’s one of those cute stories: They didn’t like each other in high school—she thought he was conceited—three-letter athlete, tall, good-looking—and Regina was a few years younger and, from what I understand, a late bloomer. But then they ran into each other after he graduated from B.U., and she was back here from Rivier College, student-teaching—”

“I know the whole story.”

“I don’t know how well you knew him, but I can assure you that he’s matured into a fine husband and father. He’ll most certainly be paying his respects.”

“I’m sure Regina will,” said Sunny.

Winnie rounded the counter carrying a platter of English muffins, sunny-side-up eggs, home fries, and sausage flattened into a patty. “Couldn’t help it,” she said. “Gus heard you were here. He practically wept.” She checked to make sure Mrs. Angelo was out of range. “He thinks you’re taking a stand by coming here,” she whispered. “He’s really touched.”

“I’m taking a stand?” asked Sunny.

“The food,” Mrs. Pope explained. “Their last meal. It was take-out from here.”

“It was the last time anyone saw Miles alive,” said Winnie. “Until they ruled out food poisoning, we were sweating bullets around here, if you know what I mean. Even with all the hoopla about the furnace, business has dropped off—at least that’s my opinion. Guilt by association.”

“Then please tell Mr. Angelo that he’ll be seeing plenty of me, but I’m going to insist on paying for my meals,” said Sunny.

The waitress said, “Let him if he wants to. He had a lung removed and we like to give him his way.”

“Cancer,” Mrs. Pope translated.

“In remission,” said Winnie.

“Is he okay?” asked Sunny.

“We think so. It didn’t spread. Next Thanksgiving it’ll be five years.” Winnie knocked on the wood-look Formica, and Sunny seconded the motion.

She was waiting with her golf bag when the driving range opened at nine. After paying for the largest bucket of balls, Sunny walked past the rubber mats to the grassy area that separated the beginners from the experts. She began with short irons and worked her way up to her woods. An older couple arrived in matching cruise-line sweatshirts, stretched in tandem, then addressed each ball with their lips moving, as if reciting lessons. Even with her head down, Sunny sensed when their bucket was empty, when the husband had simply instructed his wife to watch her.

“You the pro here?” he finally called over.

“I wish,” said Sunny.

As she returned her empty basket, the man behind the counter asked, “Any interest in a member-guest tournament coming up next weekend in Sunapee?”

“Can’t. Thanks.”

“Up here on vacation?”

“No I’m not,” said Sunny.

For the wake, Regina Pope dressed her two-year-old son in miniature grown-up clothes—gray trousers, white shirt, red clip-on bow tie. He owned only sneakers, which would have to do—no disrespect intended. It was too warm for the little patchwork madras sports jacket, dry clean only, that completed the outfit. He was Robert, without nicknames, and to his mother, especially in his dress-up clothes, the most beautiful boy in the world.

Coach Sweet decided to skip the wake and make an appearance at the funeral. Or maybe the reverse. Milling around a coffin, he’d be obliged to speak to Sunny, while at the funeral he’d sign the book, hang back, and still get credit for doing the decent thing. He could call the guys who were still in town, and they could form a kind of honor guard—some goddamn ceremonial thing like that. Nah. It wasn’t Sunny who had died. It was her mother, the ex – legal, ex – medical secretary, who could rattle off her daughter’s rights chapter and verse. Mrs. Equal Opportunity. Mrs. Title Nine.

He’d send his wife.

When Dr. Ouimet hired Margaret Batten to fill in for Mrs. Ouimet following her gallbladder surgery, there was a conspicuous change in office routine: Margaret didn’t leave early or come in late; didn’t berate him for spending too much time with a patient; didn’t tie up the phone while refusing to add a second line. Margaret was calm where his wife had been rattled, and forgiving to the cranky and the sick. Insurance companies reimbursed him for services the first time the paperwork went in, and patients surrendered co-payments before they left the office. Dr. Ouimet convinced his unsalaried wife—whose gallbladder had been removed through laparoscopy, and whose recovery was all too quick—that they should gut and remodel the kitchen the way she’d been asking for years, and, yes, she could act as general contractor, however long that took.

He was shocked that Chief Loach didn’t call him personally to break the news. He should not have had to hear about Margaret across the breakfast table, his wife’s mouth forming the words of the Bulletin headline as if they were gossip rather than personal tragedy. He cried as he reread the story himself, then dialed Margaret’s home number, praying for a case of mistaken identity. He wept throughout the day to himself, in the bathroom, garage, and car. He couldn’t eat. He blamed himself: Margaret, who rarely took a sick day and never brought her personal medical concerns to work, had complained of a serious headache for the past few weeks.

“Are you taking anything?” he’d asked, not looking up from his paperwork.

“No,” she said.

“Well, there you go. We have a miracle drug called aspirin that you could try,” he’d said with a distracted smile.

All he could think to do was run a half-page ad in the Bulletin announcing that the offices of Dr. Emil Ouimet would be closed for one week out of respect to his devoted and beloved employee, followed by a stanza by Robert Browning that he copied from Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations.

“Beloved,” said his wife. “A married man doesn’t use that word about another woman, especially a divorcee.”

“A widow. And I was speaking for my patients.”

She rattled the paper and asked from behind a page as frivolous as Living/Arts, “How long would you close the office if I died?”

“Don’t ask foolish questions,” he answered.

Even though the theater was only two blocks from the motel, Dickie Saint-Onge picked Sunny up in his stretch limousine. He asked her about pallbearers and, because calls had come in, about her mother’s favorite charity.

“I should know,” said Sunny.

“The ladies like the homeless, and almost all the men support the Shriners.”

“It should have something to do with the theater—maybe an award at the high school, a memorial scholarship.”

“For who?”

“I haven’t thought it through. Maybe a graduating senior who wants to study acting.”

Dickie took out a pocket notebook and made a notation with a miniature pencil.

“Don’t announce it yet,” said Sunny.

“What about pallbearers?”

“I did that,” said Sunny.

Dickie took her list and read it aloud. “Very nice,” he said. “I’ve used every one of them before. Dr. Ouimet called me and volunteered for the job. I was hoping you’d pick him.”

Dickie had a ring of keys, one of which opened the stage door after a half-dozen tries. He left Sunny in a dressing room, alone, sitting at a peeling vanity table, numbly surveying the pots of cracked makeup and dirty brushes.

“I’ve got to admit,” said Dickie as he returned, “I had my doubts about doing this off-site. But it looks like she was a head of state. And more flowers where these came from. You ready?”

“Is anyone here yet?”

“My wife and my mother,” said Dickie. “They come to everything I do.”

“Do I know your wife?”

“I met her at school in Albany. Her father’s a funeral director in Plattsburgh.”

Sunny stood up and quickly sat down again.

“You’re okay,” said Dickie. “I’ll be right there, moving people along, directing traffic. I’ve got Kleenex, Wash ’n Dri, Tic Tacs, water, whatever helps. Just nod and shake their hands. They usually do the talking.”

“It’s not that. I should have done this earlier. Isn’t that what people do—have a private good-bye?”

Dickie walked over to the vanity stool and helped her up, a boost from around her shoulders. “She looks like she’s sleeping. I promise. She looks beautiful, if I do say so myself.”

“Do I have a few minutes? Before anyone gets here?”

Dickie took a diplomatic quick-step away from Sunny. “Absolutely. I’ll ask my mother and Roberta to step outside.”

He looked at his watch, bit his lip.

“I don’t need long,” said Sunny. She left the dressing room, walked between the maroon velvet curtains that her mother had patched in her pre-leading lady days.

The coffin was parallel to the orchestra seats and surrounded by potted lilies. Margaret looked small and alone. Worse than asleep—unreachable, irretrievable. Sunny moved closer. She could see that her mother’s brown hair was parted on the wrong side and that her lips were painted a darker shade of red than Margaret had worn in life. The dress was out of season: black, V-necked, long-sleeved, and ending in a point at each wrist. It needed pearls, a locket, a pin, a corsage—something.

“Mom?” Sunny whispered.

The footlights and the lilies flashed white at the edges of her vision, and her knees sagged.

Roberta Saint-Onge, who’d been spying on Sunny from the vestibule, yelled for ammonium carbonate, for a cold, wet facecloth, for a chair, for help, for Dickie.

CHAPTER 7 The Viewing Hours

With a firm hand on the back of Sunny’s neck, Roberta Saint-Onge repeated, “Head down. The head has to be down.”

“I’m okay,” Sunny murmured. “You can let go now.”

“Head between your knees,” ordered Roberta.

“You’re hurting me.”

“How long does she have to stay like this?” asked Dickie.

“However long it takes for the blood to drain back into her head.”

“It’s there,” said Sunny. “Let go, for Crissakes.”

Roberta did, petulantly, as if a referee had called a jump ball and repossessed the disputed goods.

“You’re still pale,” said Dickie. “You might want to touch up your cheekbones with a little color.”

“I’ll be okay,” said Sunny. “Give me a minute without the headlock.”

“This isn’t the first time we’ve encountered this,” said Roberta.

“I never fainted before in my life,” said Sunny.

“It’s a shock to the system,” said Dickie. “No matter how close you were or what kind of parent she was or how well or poorly you got along, you only have one mother.”

“She was a fantastic parent,” said Sunny.

“Of course she was,” said Dickie.

“We grew up around it,” said Roberta. “We’re both third-generation funeral directors, so sometimes we lose sight of the fact that it’s so much more than the corporal remains of an individual.”

“What she means,” said Dickie, “is that we understand very well that it’s someone’s mother or father or husband or wife, and we can empathize, but we’re professionals and we don’t have the exact same physiologic response to the death of the loved one as our client does. We share the sorrow, but at the same time we have a job to do.”

“Hundreds of little jobs that have to be performed seamlessly,” added Roberta. “Our goal is to be as helpful yet as unobtrusive as possible.”

Sunny rubbed the back of her neck and asked what time it was.

“It’s time,” said Dickie.

“You stay right here,” said Roberta. “Everyone will understand—”

“I don’t want anyone’s understanding! No one has to know I fainted.”

“Technically? I don’t think you actually lost consciousness,” said Dickie. “I think you got woozy.”

“I want to greet people standing up. It seems the least I can do.”

“There are no rules,” said Roberta. “We encourage our mourners to do what feels right to them and not to worry about”—she flexed two fingers on each side of her face—“doing the ‘right thing.’ For example, the fact that you’re wearing navy blue tonight, and it’s sleeveless? With dangly earrings? Well, why not? There used to be an unwritten rule that anything but black and long sleeves was wrong, but times have changed. If you’d worn red, we wouldn’t have said a word.”

Sunny got to her feet, gripped the back of her metal chair with both hands, and straightened her shoulders. “Unlock the door,” she ordered.

Those who couldn’t conjure a distinct recollection of Margaret made one up: Cora Poole, whose late husband owned Fashionable Fabrics, said she remembered, as if it were yesterday, Margaret and Sunny picking out a pattern and powder-pink piqué for Sunny’s senior prom dress.

“Are you sure?” asked Sunny. “I don’t think I went to the senior prom.”

“Everyone goes,” said Mrs. Poole. “It was a Simplicity pattern, and you trimmed it in pink and white embroidered daisies that we sold by the yard.”

“It’s coming back to me,” said Sunny.

Janine Sopp, L.P.N., said she was on duty the night Sunny was born at Saint Catherine’s and took care of her in the newborn nursery.

“But I moved here when I was two,” said Sunny.

“You couldn’t have,” said Mrs. Sopp. “I remember you had a high bilirubin count and we put you under the lights.”

“Then you must be right,” murmured Sunny.

Mourners testified to being present at all of Margaret’s performances, to clapping louder and longer than anyone else to spur multiple curtain calls. Endless Community Players—co-stars, seamstresses, scenery painters, ushers—formed their own receiving line. Sunny’s Brownie troop leader, pediatrician, children’s room librarian, the Abner Cotton board, the mayor, the superintendent of schools, and the mechanic who had serviced Margaret’s car all clasped Sunny’s hand between both of theirs. Invitations issued from every trembling set of lips: Would Sunny come to Sunday dinner? Care to play eighteen holes? Borrow the videotape of a dress rehearsal of Two for the Seesaw? Mr. DeMinico, still the principal of King George Regional, still dressed in shiny brown, still resting his folded hands on the paunch bulging above his belt, asked Sunny to attend commencement as his special guest.

Dry-eyed at last, Sunny said, “Perhaps you recall that I didn’t attend my own graduation.”

He squinted into the distance, nodded curtly at several alums. “Did you get your diploma? I think Mrs. Osborn mailed it the next day.”

“No,” said Sunny. “My mother went by herself and picked it up for me.”

“We called your name,” he said, “and even though we had asked everyone to hold their applause until the end, there was a lot of clapping.”

“So I heard.”

“In recognition, I guess you could say. If I remember correctly, your mother initiated it.” He glanced toward the coffin.

“That’s not the version I got. What I heard was that a couple of girls yelled, ‘Yay, Sunny!’ Something to that effect.”

“You may be right,” said Mr. DeMinico.

“Which of course meant that the boys had to boo—”

“Just the athletes.”

“All I did was make the varsity,” said Sunny. “All I needed was one adult to stand up for me, one adult besides my mother, who thought that maybe having someone with a single-digit handicap would be good for the team and good for the school.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” said Mr. DeMinico.

“Now? Or do you mean then?”

“I can’t turn back the clock. I meant now. On this occasion.”

Behind him, an elderly woman in a black picture hat complained, “There’s a long line. Some of us have been here since twenty to seven.”

“My fault,” said Sunny, and reached around to take the woman’s gloved hand.

“You don’t know me,” said the woman, “but I had the same standing appointment as your mother did for our hair—hers with Jennifer and mine with Lorraine—side by side.” Her voice quivered. “A lovely woman. Top-drawer. That’s all I need to say, because you know better than anyone.”

“Is Jennifer here?” asked Sunny.

The woman looked behind her, leaning left then right. “There she is. Jennifer! Come meet Margaret’s daughter.” She fluttered her hands. “Hurry up. She asked for you.”