The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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      Each part of the cemetery has a name. There’s the Immaculate Conception Section, the Communion of Saints Section, the Resurrection Section, the Crucifixion Section, and so forth. Joan speaks up.

      ‘We’d like a view in the direction of Palms.’

      The lady takes this in her stride. A view from your cemetery plot? It must have been asked before, because she’s got her geography in hand. She turns the folders and points to several uncrossed-out plots.

      ‘This is the Resurrection Section here. Palms is in this direction.’ She points on her map. ‘You could look around in here.’

      She makes a circle with her pencil without touching the map.

      ‘I think you’ll find what you want. It’s on a little rise and has excellent drainage. There are some in the middle, here, in your price range because they are relatively inaccessible.’

      She indicates a wiggly circle with a dot in the center.

      ‘This is a tree. The four graves around it are slightly more expensive.’

      She refers to a chart.

      ‘There’s one left under the tree and it’s six fifty instead of five fifty; you see, the tree makes it easier to find.’

      We get the numbers and go out to look. There are winding, turning roads going all over the cemetery and she’s given us a small map to find our way. It reminds me of driving toy cars in an amusement park. There are white arrow signs pointing to the different sections and we find Resurrection with no trouble. I park, we get out and locate the cross-section markings on the edge of the road. We work our way down across graves.

      When we were kids, we had a big thing about not walking on the graves in the graveyard but here you’re more or less encouraged to. Actually, the graves are so close together, and without gravestones, you can’t tell whether you’re walking on a grave or not.

      We find the plots she pointed out to us, including one under the tree. This tree is a young jacaranda and that does it. Dad has always loved the jacaranda trees in California. We’ll blow the extra hundred bucks and not tell Mother. We sit under the tree, look out and search for what we think is Mom and Dad’s house.

      ‘We should’ve brought a picnic with us, Joan. This is a cemetery I could come visit anytime. I wonder if they’d let somebody pitch a pup tent and camp here? After all, it’s our own property; how could they stop us?’

      ‘Jack, don’t you dare mention that idea to any of the kids; you know they’ll do it.’

      Then we start crying again.

      When we’re recovered, we go back to the office. Our lady picks us up and leads us to our cubicle. It brings back the time Vron and I were buying our first new car at Central Chevrolet in Los Angeles. We made the deals in cubicles just like this. I’m almost expecting talk about a trade-in.

      We tell the lady we want the one under the tree. She’s so enthusiastic you’d think she’s the one who’s going to be buried there. We tell her the plot is for two. She asks if we want a plaque. We decide to buy one at seventy-five dollars. We’re caught up in the spirit of things. We give Mom and Dad’s names. We’ll have Dad’s name first and both the year of birth and death cut. There’s something final about putting down the year of death like that when it’s only early April. We just put down the year of Mom’s birth.

      The lady asks if we want a flower holder installed. This is twenty dollars more. It’s a metal holder set in the ground for flowers. I insist on having one; Joan thinks I’m crazy but goes along. All together, we drop about another seven hundred and fifty bucks at the cemetery. It looks as if the funeral’s going to cost somewhere around two thousand. It’s worth staying alive.

      Outside in the car, Joan wants to know why I bought the flower holder.

      ‘Gosh, Jack, we could bring a trowel, dig a little hole and stick flowers in the ground if you want. Mom’s never going to go up there and visit; she’s never visited her mother’s or father’s or any of her sisters’ graves. She’s afraid of cemeteries.’

      ‘I know, Joan, but someday I might want to do a little putting.’

      We go back home and explain to Mother what we’ve done. She doesn’t want to know too much.

      ‘When he’s dead he’s dead and that’s all there is to it. The only thing makes sense is buying mass cards and praying for him.’

      I don’t think it’s truly hit yet. She knows he’s going to die but not that he’s going to be dead. The first is an event, the second is a fact of being. There’s a big difference. It’s only beginning to sink in to me. Dad isn’t going to be anymore. We’ve said the last things to each other. I’ve seen him move around the garden or fix things in his shop for the last time. He’ll never plant another flower or laugh again. He’ll be gone.

      Billy is there during all this. Thank God he doesn’t say anything in front of Mother but out back he lets me know his feelings. I sit in the rocking chair and he flops on the bed.

      ‘Christ, Dad, it’s barbaric. Why don’t we rent a rowboat at the Santa Monica pier and dump him in the water? Who needs all this funeral crap?’

      ‘There are California laws, Bill. It took some doing just not having him embalmed.’

      We still haven’t told Mother about not embalming. We told her there wouldn’t be any viewing of the body, but there was no reason going into the rest of it.

      ‘You mean you got out of embalming him?’

      ‘That’s right. Joan quoted some obscure rule about Jewish religious custom and he’s getting a Jewish non-embalmed funeral.’

      Billy stands up and starts pacing.

      ‘That’s great, that’s really great! It’ll be almost like a real funeral. Remember how when Mme Mathilde died we packed ice around her in the bed till M Didier could get the coffin made? Then we lowered her into the box and walked her up hill to the church, then to the churchyard. The gravediggers were M Perrichot, M Boule, the mayor, and Maurice. There was an extra shovel, so I gave them a hand. We had that grave filled and tamped down in fifteen minutes. That’s my idea of a funeral.’

      ‘You’re right, Bill, but it’s not enough of a funeral for your grandmother. She’s being terrific about the whole thing, and we’ve got to give her credit.’

      ‘Dad, I don’t have a suit of any kind, let alone a black suit. What do you think?’

      ‘Look in Granddad’s closet, Bill; maybe one of his will fit you. I’m wearing one.’

      ‘You mean you’re going to the funeral in your dead father’s clothes?’

      He sits down. I’m too tired to explain about Mr Lazio.

      ‘I don’t think I could do it, Dad. That’s too creepy. If he weren’t my own granddad, I could, maybe; but I couldn’t do that.’

      He shakes his whole body and closes his eyes. Sometimes I forget how young he is. A young man like him looks so grown up, it’s easy to forget.

      ‘Then СКАЧАТЬ