May We Be Forgiven Part 8

"Kind of."

"Yit-gadal v'yit-kadash sh'mey raba, b'alma di v'ra hirutey, vyam-lih mal-hutey b'ha-yey-hon uv'yomey-hon uv'ha-yey d'hol beyt yisrael ba-agala u-vizman kariv, v'imru amen." the rabbi intones.

"Were we always Jewish?" Ashley asks.

"Yes."

The ceremony concludes, and one of the guests turns to me and says, "Given the circ.u.mstances, I think the rabbi did a very good job. What did you think?"

"It's my policy not to review funerals."

"If the guests would stay in their places until the family has had a chance to exit it would be appreciated," the rabbi says.

Jane's casket is rolled past us; the anchorman from Thanksgiving is one of the pallbearers.

Jane's parents exit with Susan between them. I notice that when she cries her expression doesn't change-tears of a clown.

Nate, Ashley, and I follow after the coffin, climbing into the limo as Jane is lifted into the hea.r.s.e.

"I hope I never have to do this again," Nate says.

"Can we go home now?" Ashley asks.

"No," Nate says. "There's like an after-party thing?"

"From here we go to the cemetery. At the graveside, a few words are said and the coffin is lowered into the ground." I wonder if I should tell them the part about shoveling some dirt on your mother, or if some things are better left unsaid. "And after the cemetery we sit s.h.i.+va at Susan's house. People who knew your mom will come and visit, and there will be food for lunch."

"I want to be alone," Nate says.

"It's not an option."

"Who sends these cars? And do they work other jobs?" Nate asks.

"Like what?"

"Like driving rock stars, or do they just do funerals?"

I lean forward and ask the driver, "Do you just do funerals, or funerals and rock stars?"

The driver glances at us in his rearview mirror. "Me, I do funerals and airports. I don't like rock and roll. They'll sign you up for a two-hour job, and four days later you're still parked outside of some hotel, waiting for the guy to decide if he wants to go out for a burger. I like regularity and a schedule." He pauses. "You got lucky with the weather. Hope you don't mind me saying but there's nothing worse than working a funeral when the weather is c.r.a.p. Puts everyone in a bad mood."

In the limo en route to the cemetery, the children are on their electronic devices. On the one hand, it's not appropriate to play computer games while driving to bury your mother; on the other, who can blame them? They want to be anywhere but here.

Jane's plot is between her aunt and her grandmother, between ovarian cancer and stroke. She is with her people. They have died of illness and old age, but never has there been the victim of domestic violence. It's different-it's worse.

The children sit on folding chairs behind their grandparents. Despite its being a nice day, it's chilly, so everyone keeps their coats on, hands in pockets. As the casket is being lowered, a hushed set of whispers, a current of surprise, sweeps through the group.

"Daddy's here," Ashley says.

We all turn to look, and, sure enough, he's getting out of the back of a car, with two burly black men in scrubs on either side of him.

"That takes a lot of nerve," Jane's mother says.

All around us people are whispering, rustling, turning.

"She was his wife."

"Until death did them part."

"He should at least have waited until we left," Susan says.

"He still has rights," someone says.

"Until he is found guilty."

The timing is off. George should have stayed in the car, hidden until everyone was gone. He stays in the distance, until the graveside service is done.

"Should we go talk to him?" Nate asks.

"Not right now," I say. "We'll see him soon."

As the funeral procession is pulling out of the cemetery, we pa.s.s George on his knees at the grave, sungla.s.ses on, his handcuffed hands in front of him. I see him pus.h.i.+ng dirt barehanded into the grave, both hands at once, joined at the wrist.

There is someone with a long lens taking photos.

"Grandma and Grandpa hate us," Nate says.

"They're upset."

"They're acting like it's our fault."

The s.h.i.+va is at Susan's house. It's far, an hour from the cemetery. After we've been driving for about forty-five minutes, the kids start to complain. I ask the driver if we can make a pit stop. The long limo drops out of the procession, waits until all the cars have pa.s.sed; then we slip into a McDonald's.

"My treat," I say to everyone, including the driver.

"I thought they were serving lunch at the s.h.i.+va," Nate says.

"What would you rather have, a hamburger or egg salad?"

"I'll toss the evidence," the driver says when we get to Susan's house.

"I'm a.s.suming you'll wait?" I say.

"You don't have a car?" the driver asks.

"My car is back at the house where you picked us up."

"Usually we just drop the people off. But I'll wait. I'll make it a time call; the hourly rate is seventy-five, with a four-hour minimum."

"We won't be that long."

The driver shrugs.

The twins are on the loose. They're running through the house, chased by a small dog that seems like a trip hazard for old people. The front hall is mirrored tile with gold veins running through. Just glancing at it makes me nervous; my reflection splits into many pieces, and I wonder if it's a "magic mirror" somehow empowered to display my internal state.

Susan is leading a tour of her remodeled split-level, showing Jane's friends how she "blew out" the ceiling and "pushed back" the rear wall so she'd have a great room and a dining room, and how they "recaptured" the garage and made a den/breakfast room with French doors and added decks "everywhere."

"We did everything we could think of and more," Susan says, proudly.

And it shows.

The visitors are the same people from the funeral, friends, neighbors, do-gooders, and curious a.s.sholes who have no business being there. Despite having eaten a double cheeseburger, I circle the dining-room table, where lunch is laid out. Pitted black olives and cherry tomatoes stare at me, expressionless. Avocados and artichokes, deviled eggs with paprika, smoked salmon, bagels, and macaroni salad; I'm looking at it all, and suddenly it turns into body parts, organs: the Jell-O mold is like a liver; the macaroni salad, cranial matter. I pour myself a Diet c.o.ke.

An older man comes up to me with a look of purpose and extends his hand.

"Hiram P. Moody," he says, shaking my hand, "your brother's accountant. No doubt you've got a lot on your mind, but what I want you to know, fiduciarily speaking, you're going to be okay."

I must have given him an odd look. "You've got nothing to worry about," he says. "Financiallyyou're in good shape. George was a bit of a player, he took some chances, made a gamble here and there, but let's just say he had a good sense of timing."

"I'm sorry?" I say, finding Hiram P. hard to follow.

He nods. "Let me be blunt. You and the children will be well cared for. I pay the bills; whatever you need, you let me know. I'm much more than a 'see you in mid-April' tax guy. I'm your go-to guy-the one who holds the purse strings-and now so do you. I've got some papers that you'll need to sign-no rush," he says. "I a.s.sume you know that you're the legal guardian for the children, as well as guardian and medical proxy for your brother, and Jane specifically wanted you as executor of any estate-she was concerned that her sister didn't share her values."

I nod. My head is bobbing up and down as if I were a puppet on a weight.

Hiram P. slips a business card into my palm. "We'll talk soon," he says. And as I turn to go, he calls after me, "Wait, I've got something better. Put out your hand." I do, and he slaps something into it. "Refrigerator magnet," he says. "My wife had them made-it's got all the info, even my cell-for emergencies."

"Thanks," I say.

Hiram P. takes me by the shoulders and gives a combo shake/squeeze. "I'm here for you and the children," he says.

Inexplicably, my eyes fill with tears. Hiram P. moves to hug me as I'm bringing my hand up to blot my eyes. Maybe it wasn't a hand, maybe it was my fist; maybe I wasn't going to blot my eyes so much as rub them with a closed fist. My fist connects with the underside of Hiram P.'s chin in a small but swift uppercut that knocks him against the wall. The picture hanging behind him slips on its hook, tilts.

Hiram P. laughs. "That's what I love about you guys, you're f.u.c.king nuts. So-call me," he says. "Whenever you're ready."

I sit next to Ashley and Nate on Susan's sectional leather sofa. An older woman sits next to us. "I knew your mother. I did her nails-she had beautiful nails. She talked about you a lot, very proud of both of you. Very proud."

"Thank you," Ashley says.

Nate gets up and goes to get something to eat. He comes back with a plate of berries for Ashley.

"You're a good brother," I say to him.

A woman bends towards the children, revealing loose, wrinkled cleavage. I look away. She extends her hand. No one takes it. The hand, with its big diamond, lands on Nate's knee. "I was her hygienist. We used to have wonderful talks-well, mostly I talked, she had the saliva sucker on, but she was a good listener. She was good."

"Do you have anything?" Nate asks me.

"Anything like what?"

"Like a Valium, an Ativan, maybe codeine."

"No," I say, surprised. "Why would I be carrying that?"

"I don't know. You had snacks-Gummi Bears-and Kleenex. I thought maybe you'd have some medication."

"Is there something you normally take for upset? Something that a doctor gives you?"

"I just take stuff from Mom and Dad's medicine cabinet."

"Great."

"Okay, never mind, just thought I'd ask." Nate walks away.

"Where are you going?"

"Bathroom."

I follow him.

"You're following me?"

"Are you going to look in the medicine cabinet?"

"I have to pee," Nate says.

"If you are, I'm going to do it with you. We'll look together."

"That's so f.u.c.ked up."

"Any more or less so than you doing it alone?"

I follow him into the bathroom, locking the door behind us.

"I really do have to pee."

"So pee."

"Not with you standing there."

"I'll turn my back."

"Can't," he says.

"I don't trust you."

"When I'm back at school you won't be following me into the bathroom. There has to be a measure of trust. Just let me pee."

"You're right, but the minute you blow it, you are so f.u.c.ked," I say, opening the medicine cabinet.