The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ My father was a carpenter, so he has all the tools. I’m sure I could build a box he’d like in two days or less.’

      He brings up a hand to smother a cough, probably a smirk or, hopefully, a smile.

      ‘I’m afraid not, sir. We shall be responsible for the funeral, transportation, ceremony and interment; the reputation of our establishment would be involved. We couldn’t allow a thing like that.’

      I know I’m being ornery, dumb; maybe I’m taking it out on death. Joan pulls me by the arm and turns toward the door. She whispers.

      ‘That’s enough, Jack, you’ve had your fun. You know how Dad is. He wouldn’t want anything out of the ordinary. We’re not going to have a hippy funeral.’

      She turns and goes back to the man.

      ‘We’ll take that one there.’

      She points to the one with the metallic gray paint.

      ‘Is it possible to have it unpainted?’

      He smiles and leans forward. Joan can get just about anything she wants. She’s such a handsome woman. When you’re her brother, it’s easy to forget.

      ‘I am sorry, madam, I don’t think there are any in our reserve without paint and if there is to be no embalming – well – we can’t wait very long.’

      Oh, he is a son of a bitch but it doesn’t faze Joan; she smiles and nods.

      ‘All right, we’ll take this one just as it is, paint and all.’

      She grabs my arm and we follow him to the office again. As we go along the narrow corridor, I fall back and take a closer look into one of those rooms. There’s a casket on a little platform, surrounded by vases of flowers. There are indirect lights and baby spots on the casket and it’s open. An old lady, dressed in orchid, is sleeping in the casket. There’s a smell of beeswax and floor polish. I run back out and catch up.

      We sit down. He opens his pad and writes in the price of the casket.

      ‘And where shall the services be held? We have lovely chambers for private services here in our own chapel.’

      I’m completely boggled again. That little smiling lady did me in; but Joan sticks with it.

      ‘We’ll have a funeral mass at Saint Augustine’s and then the burial will be at Holy Cross.’

      He looks at her. What kind of a Jewish funeral is this? I half expect him to start talking embalming again. But he’s given up; we could ask about hiring a five-piece band and he’d go along. There’s more talk concerning the hearse, the number of limousines and a police escort. I’m not fighting anymore. It’s going to be a funeral like any other funeral and Joan’s right, that’s the way Dad would like it.

      The total bill comes to something over a thousand dollars. That was the maximum we’d set when we talked with Mother. We plunk down a two-hundred-dollar deposit and say we’ll notify him when Dad dies. He also wants us to let him know soon as possible the exact location of the burial plot at Holy Cross.

      We walk out, through the glare, to our car. The parking meter is almost run down. We climb in and I sit there watching the meter.

      ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing, Jack? What are we waiting for?’

      ‘I’m getting the rest of my money’s worth from this meter. Spending a thousand dollars – bam, like that, throwing it into a hole, shakes me up.

      ‘You know, Joan, what I can’t understand is why I’m not crying. Inside I’m like soft water flowing, going nowhere, but I can’t seem to cry.’

      Joan turns and looks at me, a glint in her eye.

      ‘Do you really want to cry? I can make you cry.’

      She folds her hands in her lap, clears her throat and starts singing:

      ‘Where is my Mommy, where can she be?

      I’m so awfully lonesome, lonesome as can be.

      Papa is brokenhearted, Mother left us alone,

      So if you see my Mommy, tell her to come home.’

      She hasn’t gotten into the second line before my sobs start, softly, openly. I’m crying, scared, and ashamed as I always was. I stare through my tears at Joan. She stops. I get back some control.

      ‘Did Mom really hide from us when we were little? Sometimes I think I made it all up; it’s so hard to believe.’

      ‘Yep, she really hid. She even recommended the idea to me for my kids. She’d hide behind the hedge or sometimes go over to Mrs Reynolds, for a cup of coffee.

      ‘She thought it was funny how she could make you do anything she wanted by threatening to sing that song. You really were a “simp” when I think about it.’

      ‘Well, why weren’t you scared?’

      ‘There is a song that makes me cry, too, you know, Jack. I never let Mother know about it and don’t you snitch. I only hope I can sing it without crying now.

      ‘I don’t know why I love you like I do;

      I don’t know why I just do.

      I don’t know why you thrill me like you do;

      I don’t know why you just do.

      You never seem to like my romancing;

      The only time you hold me is when we’re dancing …’

      I pick up the melody and we sing together. There on Culver Boulevard, under clear California sunshine, we cry our way through the rest of my quarter.

      I pull out and we head toward Jefferson Boulevard. This part of town is cemeteryville. There are three cemeteries within three square miles: a Protestant one, a Jewish one and a Catholic one. I don’t know what you do if you’re an atheist or a Moslem. I wonder if there are still black cemeteries in America? There were when I was a kid. We called them colored cemeteries.

      The Catholic one we’re going to is built over what used to be a riding stable.

      It has an entrance gate like Mount Vernon. The main administration building is a studio-set blend of a Howard Johnson’s and a Bavarian chapel. Californians come up with the weirdest combinations in architecture. Except for Spanish-adobe style, there’s no indigenous form, and they have no fear.

      Inside, it’s a more practical setup. On the wall is Pope Paul VI staring down at us. I wonder if they’ll ask for our baptismal and confirmation certificates. Who’s to know if Dad’s Catholic?

      We’re ushered into a cubicle in a row of cubicles. A woman comes with a sheath of folders under her arm. We explain what we want. Again, we’re going for the cheapy but it doesn’t bother her. She puts aside two leather-bound folders and opens the folders in cardboard.

      This cemetery is laid out like a golf course. There are no gravestones except СКАЧАТЬ