The Flicker of Old Dreams Page 15

  I feel like I have, only now, looked up from my chores to discover I’ve become a woman without dreams. Heavy with stones. Perhaps the embalmer who looks after my body will read the words written on those stones as she removes them. Strange, nervous, loner. She may even understand that many of the words have come from those who love me best.

  My eyes are blurry from making small, careful stitches. I rub them as I walk up the stairs from my workroom. Near the top, I sense a shadow, breath. Pete sits alone at our kitchen table.

  “Careful with the late hours,” he says.

  “I learned from Pop,” I say, hearing the tremble in my voice.

  “That’s what I mean,” he says. “You see the toll it takes.”

  Though I rinsed my hands in the basement, I rinse them again at the kitchen sink because something about Pete’s face, the force in his jaw, makes me want some distance.

  “You weren’t waiting for me, were you?” I ask, eyes toward the faucet.

  “I wouldn’t mind a little chat,” he says.

  I pull the chair far from the table, sit with my back touching a cupboard.

  “I was under the impression that we were all on the same page regarding Doris’s service,” he says. “I notarized those original forms myself.”

  “The problem,” I say, drying my hands on my pants and speaking cautiously, “is that her son wants to do this himself.”

  “He’s being difficult,” Pete says.

  “Is he the one being difficult?” I ask. “People just stare at him when he walks by. And someone’s been leaving cigarette butts in his driveway.”

  “There’s no law about where you put out your cigarettes,” he says.

  “It’s like someone’s trying to send him a message,” I say. “Let him know he’s not wanted here.”

  “It’s not model behavior, but I’m not going to run a DNA test on the stubs.”

  “You can’t do anything?”

  “When this guy’s on his way, everything will settle down again,” he says.

  “Well, planning the service is in his hands,” I say. “He’s next of kin.”

  “I’d hate for you to do something that turns customers away,” Pete says. “Your father works hard to make this business one that really stands for the community.”

  “Robert Golden is the one caring for Doris and watching her die,” I say, my words stronger than my voice. “I think it might be good for them to work through some of those questions together.”

  “It’s kind of late to start a relationship when you take off for decades.”

  “It’s not my job to decide who’s earned the right to grieve,” I say.

  “Here’s the thing, Button,” he says, angling his chair so his shoulders are squared with mine. “Making new plans will upset a lot of people. Imagine how those nice ladies, who just want to sing for Doris, will feel if they’re suddenly told they’re no longer a part of the service.”

  “I understand,” I say, my voice even smaller. “But it’s not my job to worry about the town’s feelings.”

  He leans in.

  “But it’s my job to worry about them,” he says. “I have to be committed to the people who will be staying, Mary. Not someone here for a visit.”

  My chest tightens.

  “You can make a suggestion,” he says. “You can tell him it won’t just make it easier on the town but it’ll make it easier on him, too. Can you do that?”

  I swallow.

  “Help him see it’s in everyone’s best interest,” Pete says.

  I don’t speak.

  “Hey,” he says, his voice softening. “Haven’t I always been there for you?”

  He gets up from his chair, walks over to me, and palms my head in his hands. I feel like the little girl in the swimsuit, my fingers stuck with pins.

  “Don’t you trust me to look after this town?” he asks.

  He’s still holding my head and I try to nod.

  “I’ll talk to him,” I say in a whisper.

  “I appreciate that,” he says.

  He lets go, puts on his hat, which helps to balance out his large jaw. I stand and we walk together toward the door.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask,” he says, stopping to push in his chair. “Are you still seeing your secret fella?”

  “I’m not seeing anyone,” I say. “We just talk sometimes.”

  “Well, taking it slow is good,” he says, turning back toward me. “Love is complicated, Mary. Hearts, if you look at real ones, are not so pretty.”

  “I’ve seen real ones,” I say.

  “Yes,” he says. “Yes, you have.”

  Pete kisses the top of my head and says his last words into my scalp. “Make this happen, all right?”

  My hands stay against the door after he leaves. My heart—through loyalty, love, and fear, one small choice at a time, swallow by swallow—cowers, pale and shriveled, beneath the stones.

  I watch from our front window. Pete’s white Ford flies through town, and when it’s dark again, a flame flickers at the end of the Goldens’ driveway. The flare of a cigarette reveals a shape, then two, then three.

  What’s suddenly clear is that no one’s going to protect Robert. The law isn’t for everyone.

  I imagine the men’s hard, red faces, their feeling that something at the heart of them has been stolen. They’re out of money, out of patience. But they have fight. Standing there, all puffed up and menacing, they still have their pride.

  I’m almost sad for them. How they can’t adjust to the fact that things have changed. That it’s not going to be like it was. Just because you love something, just because you hold on tight, doesn’t mean it will last. Sometimes you can only watch helplessly as it slips from your grasp. You say good-bye before you’re ready. You may even refuse to say good-bye at all. Still, it slips away.

  The shadows gather there for many minutes. Each long draw burns hot like rage and then rushes back into the air we all breathe.

  25

  Pop calls down the stairs, “Do I have a clean suit anywhere?”

  I start the coffee, then check the hallway closet.

  “Right here,” I say. “Cleaned and pressed.”

  “Good,” he says, walking downstairs.

  I need to wash the pajamas he’s wearing. They’re stained with food and whiskey, and I know he’ll just put them on again.

  He enters the kitchen, rubbing a hand down his face, and pulls a chair from the table.

  “Is Mr. Purvis ready for his viewing?”

  “He will be by ten,” I say. “Are you going to be ready?”

  “If I get some coffee, yes.”

  I hand him his cup.

  “Pete stayed late last night,” I say.

  “Oh?”

  “Pop, I thought you dropped it. About the paperwork. I thought you finally decided to treat me like an adult.”

  “I only told him about our talk.”

  “Well, that’s why I’m about to head over to the Goldens’,” I say. “I don’t need you and Pete handling things for me.”

  “Let me get the original paperwork for you,” Pop says, groaning that he has to stand so soon.

  I follow him as far as the office door. Let him navigate all the crap on the floor. He opens the file cabinet.

  “Show him the service I planned,” he says. “I’m no slouch at this.”

  “No, you aren’t,” I say.

  “Remember, it’s a win for everyone,” he says. “Those already expecting to be involved in the service will be happy, and this makes less work for Robert.”

  “Do you need me to clean your office before the service?” I ask.

  He shuts the door and heads back to his coffee.

  I stand on our porch as I button my coat, watching Doris at her front window.

  I wonder if having her son home, after more than two decades, is a comfort in her last days. I wonder what she would choose if she had my dilemma—peace for the town or peace for her son.

&
nbsp; We have all been watching her die for the past two years. This is what no one likes to talk about: dying takes longer than people think. In movies, family gathers around, sharing expressions of love and forgiveness, often never voiced before. The dying person closes his eyes, feeling at peace as he takes one last breath.

  Except in real life, it’s not so easy. You get impatient. Because the dying goes on and on. You can’t seem to make them comfortable. The loving talk turns cranky, or sometimes the talk is just mundane and you end up watching TV.

  I cross the street and spot Robert in the backyard, taking down poultry netting that was stapled to the old wooden pen. Jacket open and wearing gardening gloves, he rolls the wire mesh like a sleeping bag, pressing his knee on the roll to keep it tight.

  “Damnit,” he says and stops to pull something from his knee, causing the netting to unfold.

  When I laugh, he looks up in surprise.

  “Well, my day just got a little better,” he says.

  I see that same smile he showed me the other night.

  “Want to borrow some gloves and get in on the fun?” he asks. “Or is this a business call?”

  “Business, actually.”

  He slowly winds his way through a tangle of wire and framing.

  “So there’s a small complication with the paperwork I gave you,” I say. “Actually, it’s more of an un-complication.”

  I give a hopeful smile and reach into my bag for my father’s papers.

  “It turns out my father had already completed papers for your mom’s service some time ago,” I say.

  “I don’t understand.”

  He moves a stack of posts aside, then stands close, reading.

  “When Doris got sick,” I say, repeating the arguments Pete and my father have made so forcefully, “there was no family here.”

  Robert breathes heavily into the paper.

  “You can’t blame my pop for assuming he had to look after your mom. He had no reason to believe you’d come back.”

  The words feel sharp in my mouth, as if they might puncture.

  “The good news,” I say, because I’m just going to talk through his silence, “is there’s nothing you have to do.”

  “Can you turn to the next page?” he asks, careful not to put his muddy gloves on them.

  I turn to the second page, watching his mouth tighten.

  “Mr. Purvis is listed as someone who planned to speak at the service,” he says. “Really, Mary? Even if he weren’t dead . . . Mr. Purvis?”

  “What?”

  I quickly read the page.

  “Your father thought Mr. Purvis would be a great addition to my ma’s service?” he asks in disbelief.

  “We’ll change that,” I say. “The rest is pretty standard.”

  I haven’t actually looked at the papers, but I know Pop always goes traditional. Robert continues reading.

  “I don’t know any of these casket bearers,” he says, his shoulders rising. “Can you turn to the next?”

  I flip to the last page, staring at the words because I can’t bear to look at Robert.

  “The Sweet Adelines?” he asks.

  “They’re the singing group your mom was a part of.”

  “I know who they are,” he says. “A couple of them have been coming to the house and my ma keeps asking me to send them away.”

  “They’ve been preparing hymns for the service,” I say. “It would upset them if . . .”

  “They’ve been upsetting my mother,” he says. “And frankly, they’ve been pretty rude to me.”

  I look for the man I sat with in the rodeo stands.

  “You can make this easy for everyone,” I say.

  He takes off a glove and snatches the papers.

  “These plans don’t look a thing like the service I want to give her,” he says, gripping them so hard they crinkle. “God, Mary, I’m surprised you’d do this!”

  “Do what?”

  “Let your dad talk you into this.”

  His glove slips to the ground.

  “Actually, I’m not surprised,” he says. “I don’t know why you let people boss you around like a child.”

  “You have both sets of papers,” I say, my voice quivering. “Do what you want with them.”

  I don’t wait to hear another word because I’m already crossing the street.

  26

  When I get to the basement, I’m furious. My jaw aches where my teeth have been clamped together. I slip on a double pair of latex gloves and rush to get Mr. Purvis ready. The wheel of the gurney catches on the door frame as I roll the body out of the cooler. Tears squeeze out the corners of my eyes.

  I turn on the water and wash Mr. Purvis’s hair with baby shampoo. I’m careful not to press my fingers in with too much force. Sometimes the head is soft like an overripe melon and I have learned from past mistakes. Concentrate, I think. The familiar movement helps me relax, and I’m gentle with his thin, brittle hair, careful not to get shampoo in his eyes.

  I like the smile I’ve given him. I look through Mr. Purvis’s belongings to find the photo his family brought. I study the way he styles his thinning hair. After I comb it to one side, I trim his yellowed and crumbling nails and paint them the palest pink to create a look of health.

  Normally I love the finishing work, the final touches where I feel most like I’m creating a work of art. This morning, though, my hands shake and I can’t focus. How could Robert turn on me so quickly when I’m the only one in this town who’s stuck up for him?

  I tie a plastic bib around Mr. Purvis’s neck and pick up a syringe filled with pink gel that I can insert into the tip of his nose, cheeks, ears, and eyebrows to add a little plumpness. I can’t stop thinking of the conversation with Robert and wish I hadn’t gotten in the middle of it. I don’t like how this morning’s stress has invaded my workspace. I should be thinking about Mr. Purvis, who I’ve just plumped up so much he doesn’t look at all like his photo.

  I set down the syringe and try to see what I’ve done. It’s something about the eyes, about the crease on the one side of his mouth. Or maybe I used too much filler in that line between the eyebrows. I’d meant to make him look less haggard, and frankly, less dead, but I’ve lost something about his natural expression. I push on the skin to let some of the fixer escape, thin his face out a bit. It feels good to push down hard with my thumb.

  I squeeze a ball of shaving cream into my palm, rub the foam between my hands, and let out a long breath. I spread the shaving cream about his beard area, dabbing carefully above the lip.

  “Are you talking to yourself?”

  Shaving cream slips into Mr. Purvis’s nostrils. “God, Pop, could you knock? What if I’d had the razor in my hand?”

  “You were far away.”

  “It’s called working.”

  “Your talk with Robert didn’t go well?”

  “No.”

  I rest my hand beneath Mr. Purvis’s chin, turning his head and gently pressing his skin flat before I stroke with the razor.

  “Did he agree to go with the original plans?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “He’s going to do what he’s going to do.”

  I shave the other side, then work carefully around his mouth and chin where the skin isn’t as smooth.

  “I’m surprised he wouldn’t want to make things easier for himself,” Pop says.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “He’ll come through. You’ll see.”

  “Pass me that hand towel, would you?” I say.

  I dab Mr. Purvis’s face dry.

  “I should have handled this myself,” Pop says.

  “Can we stop talking about this?”

  I pinch off some mortuary wax and roll it between my fingers, warming it until it’s malleable. With a thin spatula, I cover any signs of suturing. I fill in cuts and an abrasion on the back of Mr. Purvis’s hand and some others along his arms. He was a scab picker. After, I smooth the wax and create feat
herlike lines to give the appearance of natural skin.

  “Should be a big turnout today,” Pop says.

  I search through the makeup box, find the moisturizer and apply it to Mr. Purvis’s hands and face. I open various jars of pancake foundation, mixing colors together to match his skin tone. I dab with a brush over the bruising where an IV had been inserted, smooth the color around his face and receding hairline.

  “The last of our town’s heroes,” he says.

  “Don’t block my light, Pop,” I say, adding lip balm and then just a touch of pink. No one wants Grandpa to look like Liberace, a phrase Pop taught me when I first began this work. I look up.

  “My light, Pop?”

  He steps aside.

  I turn back to Mr. Purvis, adding warmer colors to his cheeks, chin, knuckles, and eyelids. It gives the impression that there’s still blood circulating. I add brown to the eyelids, just enough to make them pop. A little red, a little dark tan, some rouge on the forehead, cheeks, and nose. It almost looks like he’s come back to life. This is the sign that lets me know I’m done, the fear that he’ll sneeze or open his eyes or rub a hand across his face and ruin my work.

  I brush baby powder over his skin to set the final look and help with the odor. There is no more sign of his yellow skin, yellow eyes, bruises, or scratch marks. I look once again at the photo, impressed at the similarity.

  “Pop, you’re hovering.”

  “Mentoring.”

  “Come on. I can feel your breath on my neck. That’s hovering.”

  And then in a softer voice he says, “You’re very good at restoration, Mary. An artist.”

  “I guess this one came out okay,” I say, untying the bib. I set the makeup box aside and remove my gloves. “Do you like what I did with the mouth?”

  “It’s very Mona Lisa,” he says. “Maybe a little too much expression.”

  “I kind of like it,” I say. “Anyway, too late for changes. I already used Super Glue.”

  Pop checks his watch. “About time to get him dressed,” he says.

  We stuff his soft, fluid-filled limbs into sleeves and leg holes, even the underclothes, though no one would notice the difference. My father loops and straightens the tie while I prepare his jacket.