Just another chunk...wake/funeral transition.
Edie glanced around the room. The splash of color was disorienting. Flowers of every shade mixed with people, mourners, dressed in a jumble of fabrics and patterns. Each one was trying to look their best in the worst of situations. They filed past, brushed her shoulder, patted her hand, murmured regrets or words of comfort. “Who is comforting whom?” She thought to herself. Jesse, her only son, was now lying in a box waiting to be lowered into the ground. Strangers will throw dirt and roll sod on top of the hole. Her chest pressed hard toward her spine in an effort to breathe. An act which she repeated without though each and every day had become so exhausting and required concentration. Yes these people, so many of which she’d swear she didn’t know, wanted to hear her say it was all okay. The world turns, life goes on, eat a cookie and kiss the boo boo.
Her daughters, their hair brushed shiny smooth, sat to her right shifting uncomfortably against the cheap fabric of the funeral home chairs. They stared ahead and looked lost; the younger leaned her head against the other’s shoulder. Edie looked to her left. Her husband, head down, his hands rubbing his eyes. Crying. With a sharp intake of breath, Edie looked away. “Thank you for coming,” she nodded to someone. “Yes, he was a special soul,” she said to the next. “Thank you for coming, Thank you for coming, Yes, Yes…”
Connie waited in line. She’d never been to a funeral before. Her mother refused to attend, and so Connie rode her bike the whole way. She wasn’t sure if she should be there. She stood out in her jeans and Keds, but it was too hard to bike in a skirt, and harder still to leave the house without raising suspicion. Her eyes shifted side to side. “Why are there no other kids?” The voice questioned, pushing her back toward the door, toward her bicycle. The line inched forward, creeping quietly. The room was stuffy; the air clung to her skin and pressed against her scalp and eyelids. She tried to concentrate, staring at the heels of the shoes that blocked her path. Black, thick soled, men’s shoes. She tried to breath, but somehow the air was too thick to pull into her lungs. Her heart lurched.
Katie’s mother noticed the girl in line just a few people ahead of her. She lived across the street; she and her mother had moved there a few years ago. The father was there at first, then gone. Kept to themselves. “Fine with me,” she’d said her husband over dinner. “People are too nosy these days.” Then the fights started. The girl’s mother was the women’s lib type. Nothing ever good enough for her. Katie’s mom tried to remember the girl’s name, to remember anything about her other than seeing her skip rope, or toss acorns, or sit on her front steps reading. Always alone. Alone tonight. Katie’s mom took her eyes off the girl, brushed her hands down the front of her dress, tugged at her waistline, and swiped her hair smooth against her scalp.
Milo’s mother tugged at his arm. “Come on!” He dragged his feet. The murmurs of the other visitors were close and fell around him like a guilty rain. His mother pushed him into the foot of space between himself and a woman with bright orange shoes. He fingered the marble in his pocket; he’d found it in the parking lot on the way into the funeral home. His mother did not allow them in the house, and she’d be furious if she knew he’d picked up something off the ground. He leaned sideways, trying to catch a glimpse of anything ahead. He was startled by a pair of gray eyes looking back at him.
Connie saw the boy. He moped around her street sometimes, dragging his feet and sometimes a twig or branch in the dirt that spread between the street and the curb. Her mother called him “the weirdo.” But, then, her mother had a name for pretty much any kid in the neighborhood, as well as a few chosen words for their parents. She’d murmur words and accusations like “pasty faced bitch of a June Cleaver” or “close minded chauvinist bastard.” Seeing Connie lurking nearby, she’d flick her cigarette towards the street, adding “not words for little girls to use. Someday you’ll understand how women who spend days cleaning, baking and bowing to their men drag down our society and bury any progress the woman’s movement has made.” When she was younger, Connie always found herself wishing that her own mother would, just once, bury some progress. She wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, except that maybe she’d get a hug and a cookie like the kids on TV. She sometimes woke hoping to see her mom in a pressed apron pushing pancakes around a big pan. Usually, though, her mom was seated at the table flipping through the paper; a long ash clinging to the end of a cigarette pressed between tight lips. Since Connie’s father left, her mother had gotten even more vocal, and lost no opportunity to embarrass her in any group. Connie was glad she was alone here today.
“Hi. My name is Connie. I live on your street.” Edie reached to take the girl’s outstretched hand. She looked into the wide, gray eyes. “Well then. I think I’ve seen you around. I am pleased to officially meet you, Connie.” The girl fidgeted, stammered. “I, um, I.” Edie leaned in and spoke softly. “Its okay. I am not quite sure what to say to all these people either, you know.” She patted the girls head, letting her palm rest for just a moment. With a quick smile, she looked away to take the next outstretched hand. Her thoughts raced. “Jesse is cold. Smile. Breathe. Kiss the boo boo.”
Katie pressed her face against her hands, folding herself into the chair. She willed herself not to throw up. Not here. Not now. About two months ago, she was sick and stayed home from school. She threw up then, and had noticed then that her lip quivered just before it happened. She took a deep breath and straightened, scanning the crowd for her mother and father. The smell of flowers made her throat hurt even more. She was tired of the tut-tuts that pushed toward her in thick waves. She wanted to shrink, crawl, get away from here. She was so tired, so sleepy, so scared. She saw her teacher nearby, and tried to sit up straighter.
Connie left the front of the line and found herself in empty space, unsure of what to do next. Smaller groups formed like sympathetic islands floating on the sea of sad, brown carpet. She hesitated, knowing she couldn’t exactly hinge to one of these groupings, yet the idea of biking home at this moment depressed her. Despite the thick pile beneath her feet, she could hear each step taken. She tried to push onto her toes, arms pressing outward for balance, and started across the room. There was a girl seated in a chair nearby. Connie recognized her as the girl who lived across the street. She knew the girl’s name was Katie, and had wanted to be friends. But, again, there was the problem of the mother. Other moms had told their daughters to stay away from her house after they returned home spouting words like “fuck” and “piss.” Sometimes it was better to be alone.
Milo’s mother was talking in whispered shouts. He wasn’t paying attention to the words exactly. The procession crawled forward. He saw Jesse’s mother, father and sisters ahead. Just beyond them, there were several scattered seats. Katie looked up, toward him. He raised his hand in a weak wave. She squinted, and tucked her chin.
Her daughters, their hair brushed shiny smooth, sat to her right shifting uncomfortably against the cheap fabric of the funeral home chairs. They stared ahead and looked lost; the younger leaned her head against the other’s shoulder. Edie looked to her left. Her husband, head down, his hands rubbing his eyes. Crying. With a sharp intake of breath, Edie looked away. “Thank you for coming,” she nodded to someone. “Yes, he was a special soul,” she said to the next. “Thank you for coming, Thank you for coming, Yes, Yes…”
Connie waited in line. She’d never been to a funeral before. Her mother refused to attend, and so Connie rode her bike the whole way. She wasn’t sure if she should be there. She stood out in her jeans and Keds, but it was too hard to bike in a skirt, and harder still to leave the house without raising suspicion. Her eyes shifted side to side. “Why are there no other kids?” The voice questioned, pushing her back toward the door, toward her bicycle. The line inched forward, creeping quietly. The room was stuffy; the air clung to her skin and pressed against her scalp and eyelids. She tried to concentrate, staring at the heels of the shoes that blocked her path. Black, thick soled, men’s shoes. She tried to breath, but somehow the air was too thick to pull into her lungs. Her heart lurched.
Katie’s mother noticed the girl in line just a few people ahead of her. She lived across the street; she and her mother had moved there a few years ago. The father was there at first, then gone. Kept to themselves. “Fine with me,” she’d said her husband over dinner. “People are too nosy these days.” Then the fights started. The girl’s mother was the women’s lib type. Nothing ever good enough for her. Katie’s mom tried to remember the girl’s name, to remember anything about her other than seeing her skip rope, or toss acorns, or sit on her front steps reading. Always alone. Alone tonight. Katie’s mom took her eyes off the girl, brushed her hands down the front of her dress, tugged at her waistline, and swiped her hair smooth against her scalp.
Milo’s mother tugged at his arm. “Come on!” He dragged his feet. The murmurs of the other visitors were close and fell around him like a guilty rain. His mother pushed him into the foot of space between himself and a woman with bright orange shoes. He fingered the marble in his pocket; he’d found it in the parking lot on the way into the funeral home. His mother did not allow them in the house, and she’d be furious if she knew he’d picked up something off the ground. He leaned sideways, trying to catch a glimpse of anything ahead. He was startled by a pair of gray eyes looking back at him.
Connie saw the boy. He moped around her street sometimes, dragging his feet and sometimes a twig or branch in the dirt that spread between the street and the curb. Her mother called him “the weirdo.” But, then, her mother had a name for pretty much any kid in the neighborhood, as well as a few chosen words for their parents. She’d murmur words and accusations like “pasty faced bitch of a June Cleaver” or “close minded chauvinist bastard.” Seeing Connie lurking nearby, she’d flick her cigarette towards the street, adding “not words for little girls to use. Someday you’ll understand how women who spend days cleaning, baking and bowing to their men drag down our society and bury any progress the woman’s movement has made.” When she was younger, Connie always found herself wishing that her own mother would, just once, bury some progress. She wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, except that maybe she’d get a hug and a cookie like the kids on TV. She sometimes woke hoping to see her mom in a pressed apron pushing pancakes around a big pan. Usually, though, her mom was seated at the table flipping through the paper; a long ash clinging to the end of a cigarette pressed between tight lips. Since Connie’s father left, her mother had gotten even more vocal, and lost no opportunity to embarrass her in any group. Connie was glad she was alone here today.
“Hi. My name is Connie. I live on your street.” Edie reached to take the girl’s outstretched hand. She looked into the wide, gray eyes. “Well then. I think I’ve seen you around. I am pleased to officially meet you, Connie.” The girl fidgeted, stammered. “I, um, I.” Edie leaned in and spoke softly. “Its okay. I am not quite sure what to say to all these people either, you know.” She patted the girls head, letting her palm rest for just a moment. With a quick smile, she looked away to take the next outstretched hand. Her thoughts raced. “Jesse is cold. Smile. Breathe. Kiss the boo boo.”
Katie pressed her face against her hands, folding herself into the chair. She willed herself not to throw up. Not here. Not now. About two months ago, she was sick and stayed home from school. She threw up then, and had noticed then that her lip quivered just before it happened. She took a deep breath and straightened, scanning the crowd for her mother and father. The smell of flowers made her throat hurt even more. She was tired of the tut-tuts that pushed toward her in thick waves. She wanted to shrink, crawl, get away from here. She was so tired, so sleepy, so scared. She saw her teacher nearby, and tried to sit up straighter.
Connie left the front of the line and found herself in empty space, unsure of what to do next. Smaller groups formed like sympathetic islands floating on the sea of sad, brown carpet. She hesitated, knowing she couldn’t exactly hinge to one of these groupings, yet the idea of biking home at this moment depressed her. Despite the thick pile beneath her feet, she could hear each step taken. She tried to push onto her toes, arms pressing outward for balance, and started across the room. There was a girl seated in a chair nearby. Connie recognized her as the girl who lived across the street. She knew the girl’s name was Katie, and had wanted to be friends. But, again, there was the problem of the mother. Other moms had told their daughters to stay away from her house after they returned home spouting words like “fuck” and “piss.” Sometimes it was better to be alone.
Milo’s mother was talking in whispered shouts. He wasn’t paying attention to the words exactly. The procession crawled forward. He saw Jesse’s mother, father and sisters ahead. Just beyond them, there were several scattered seats. Katie looked up, toward him. He raised his hand in a weak wave. She squinted, and tucked her chin.