WEDNESDAY
August 9, 2006, 8:46 a.m.
Cabel knocks on the door. “I’m sorry to bug you,” he says. “I’m not trying to. I know you need space. But here’s a little breakfast so you don’t have to mess with it.”
Janie bites her bottom lip. Takes the tray. “Thanks.”
“Back later.” He sprints across the yards back to his house.
Janie knocks firmly on her mother’s bedroom door.
“What now?”
“Mother? I’ve got some breakfast for you,” she says through the closed door. “Cabel made it. He’s going to be back here at ten thirty to pick us up for the funeral, so you need to be ready.”
Silence.
“Mother.”
“Just set it on my dresser.”
Janie enters. Dorothea Hannagan is sitting on the edge of her bed, rocking back and forth. “Are you okay?”
“Set it there and git outta here.”
Janie glances at her watch, sets the plate on the dresser and leaves the room, a sinking feeling in her gut.
She hops into the shower and lets cool water wash over her. It’s not as hot outside today. That’ll be a relief at the funeral, standing out by the grave site in the sun.
Janie’s only been to one other funeral in her life—her grandmother’s in Chicago a long time ago. That one was in a church and there were lots of blue-haired strangers there. They had ham buns and sugar cookies and orange drink afterward, she remembers, and Janie ran around the church basement with a bunch of distant cousins until the old people made them stop. That’s about all Janie remembers.
Janie chose a grave-site service for Henry. It’s harder for people to fall asleep when they’re standing around outside.
Even the drunk ones.
9:39 a.m.
She remembers now why she’s not fond of dresses.
9:50 a.m.
Janie knocks tentatively on her mother’s door.
There’s no answer.
“Mother?”
With only forty minutes to go before Cabel picks them up, Janie’s getting nervous. “Mother,” she says, louder this time. Why does everything have to be so hard?
Finally, Janie opens the door. Dorothea is sitting on the bed, a glass of vodka in her hand. Her hair is still greasy. She’s still wearing her nightgown. “Mother!”
“I’m not going.” Dorothea says. “I can’t go.” She doubles over, wraps her arm around her stomach like it hurts, still holding the glass. “I’m sick.”
“You are not sick, you’re drunk. Get your ass into the shower—now.”
“I can’t go.”
“Mother!” Janie’s losing it. “God! Why do you have to do this? Why do you have to make everything so f*cking hard? I’m turning the shower on and you are getting in it.”
Janie stomps to the bathroom and turns on the shower. Stomps back to her mother’s room and grabs the drink from Dorothea’s hand. Slams it down on the dresser and it splashes all over her hand. Pulls her mother up by the arm. “Come ON! They are not going to delay this funeral for you.”
“I can’t go!” Dorothea says, trying to sound firm. But her frail body is no match for Janie’s strength.
Janie pulls her mother to the bathroom and pushes her into the shower, still wearing her nightgown. Dorothea yells. Janie reaches in and grabs shampoo, washes her mother’s hair. It’s so greasy that it doesn’t lather. Janie takes another handful and tries again.
Dorothea claws at Janie, also now sopping wet in her dress. Janie holds her mother’s head back so the water runs over her, rinsing out the shampoo. “You ruin everything,” Janie says. “I’m not going to let you ruin this. Now,” Janie says as she turns the water off and grabs a towel, “Take off that ridiculous nightgown and dry yourself. I can NOT believe this is happening. I am so done with this.” Janie turns abruptly and stalks off, soaking wet, to her own room to find something else suitable to wear.
All Janie can hear is some shuffling around in the bathroom. She runs a brush through her hair and fixes her soggy makeup. And then she goes to Dorothea’s bedroom, takes out the dress and undergarments, and carries them to the bathroom. Finds her mother still drying off.
Janie looks at her mother, a bedraggled rat, so thin her bones poke through her skin. Her face is tired, dejected. “Come on, Ma,” Janie says softly. “Let’s get you dressed.”
This time, Dorothea goes quietly, and in the dusty light of Dorothea’s bedroom, Janie helps her mother get ready. Brushes her hair, pulls it back into a bun. Flips the light switch and puts some makeup on her. “You have nice cheekbones,” Janie says. “You should wear your hair back more often.”
Dorothea doesn’t respond but her chin tips up a notch. She wets her lips. “I’m going to need the rest of that glass,” she says quietly, “if I’m gonna get through this.”
Janie looks her mother in the eye, and Dorothea’s gaze drops to the floor.
“I ain’t proud of that, but it’s the truth.” Dorothea’s lip twitches.
Janie nods. “Okay.” She turns as she hears the front door open and Cabel’s car running in the driveway. “We’ll be right there!” she calls out.
“Take your time, ladies. I’m a few minutes early,” Cabe says.
Dorothea drinks the vodka in two swallows and cringes. Breathes a sigh, but it sounds more like a burden than a relief. She takes the bottle of vodka from the table by her bed and fumbles with her purse, pulling out the flask. Filling it, spilling a little, replacing the cap.
Janie doesn’t say anything.
Dorothea closes her purse and turns to Janie. Janie helps her with her shoes.
“Ready?” Janie asks. “After you.”
Dorothea nods. She walks unsteadily to the hallway.
Cabel smiles as the two approach. He’s wearing a dark gray suit and he looks pretty freaking amazing in it. His hair is tamed and still damp, curling up just barely over his collar. “I’m very sorry about your loss, Ms. Hannagan,” he says. He offers his arm to her.
Dorothea looks surprised for a minute, but she gathers her wits and takes his arm as he ushers her to the door and outside to the awaiting car. “Thank you,” she says with rare dignity.
10:49 a.m.
They arrive at the cemetery early. The grave site is obvious by the pile of dirt, the suspended pine box, and the rabbi and cemetery workers around it. There are several other people standing quietly nearby as well. Cabel pulls the car to the side of the narrow road.
Janie gets out of the car and helps her mother out of the front seat. The three of them walk together as the rabbi comes to greet them.
“Good morning,” he says. “I’m Rabbi Ari Greenbaum.” He reaches out his hand.
Janie takes it. “I’m Janie Hannagan. This is my mother, Dorothea Hannagan, and my friend, Cabel Strumheller. I am the daughter of the deceased.” She’s proud she doesn’t stutter through it, but she’s been practicing in her mind. “Thank you for helping us with this. We . . . none of us is Jewish. Not, really, anyway. I guess.” She blushes.
The rabbi smiles warmly, apparently unbothered by the news. He turns and they walk together to the grave site. Rabbi Greenbaum goes over the details of the ceremony and hands each of them a card with Psalm 23 written on it.
Dorothea stares at the words on the card. She looks up at the casket. Glares at it. Her mouth quivers but she remains quiet.
The strangers approach and stand around the grave site—several men and a few women as well. “From my congregation,” the rabbi explains. “The men prepared your father’s body for burial and sat with him through the night, then acted as pallbearers and carried the coffin here.”
Janie looks up, grateful. Thinking this is all so very strange, but sort of beautiful, too. How thoughtful of these people to do this, and to take the time to come to the funeral of a stranger.
They stand near the grave and wait. Even the birds are quiet as they approach the heat of the day.
Janie stares into the hole. Sees a thin tree root, freshly cut, its raw, white end sticking out of the dirt. She pictures the casket at the bottom of the pit, under all that heavy dirt, the roots growing and wrapping around it, seizing it, breaking through the casket, seizing the body. She shakes her head to clear it and looks up at the blue sky instead.
Behind her, Janie hears more cars approaching. She turns to look and sees two black and whites. Sergeants Baker, Cobb, and Rabinowitz get out, dressed in uniform. Behind the cop cars is a black sedan and Captain steps out.
Charlie and Megan Strumheller are right behind, still tan from their week at the lake. And then Ethel pulls up with Carrie and Stu. Janie tears up a little. In the distance, a big, brown UPS truck rumbles up the narrow cemetery road. Janie can’t believe it—all these people coming. She looks at Cabe, incredulous. “How did they know?” she whispers. He smiles and shrugs.
It’s time.
The rabbi greets the tiny congregation of attendees and speaks for a moment.
And then.
“May he to his resting place in peace,” the rabbi says.
Before Janie can think, the cemetery workers lower the casket into the grave and soon everyone is looking down on her father in a box. Next to Janie, Dorothea sniffles loudly and sways. Janie grabs her mother around the shoulders and steadies her as the rabbi begins talking again.
And as Janie absorbs the ebb and flow of the rabbi’s words, the musical lilt of the Psalms, a little part of her life suffocates in that pine box in the ground too.
“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.” Janie is startled from her thoughts by the group around her, all reciting aloud. She hurries to find her place on the handout and reads along.
And then the rabbi asks if anybody wants to share a story about Henry.
Janie stares at the grass.
After a moment, Cathy, dressed in her standard UPS browns, clears her throat and steps forward. Janie can feel her mother stiffen.
“Who’s that?” Dorothea hisses to Janie.
Janie squeezes her mother’s shoulder and says nothing.
“Henry Feingold was my customer, and over the years we became good friends,” Cathy says, her voice wavering. “He always had a cup of coffee to offer or a cool drink. And when he found out I like to collect snow globes, he started looking for them when he was buying things for his little Internet shop. He was a really thoughtful man, and I’m going to miss him on my route and . . . I’m grateful to you, Janie, for letting me know that he passed on so I could have a chance to say good-bye. And that’s it.” Cathy steps back to her spot.
“Thank you. Anyone else?”
Cabel nudges Janie. She pokes him back.
And then, and then.
Dorothea says, “I want to say something.”
Janie freaks out inside.
The rabbi nods, and Dorothea takes a few unsteady steps to where she can turn around and face the crowd.
What is she going to say? Janie glances at Cabe, sees his eyes are worried too.
Dorothea’s thin voice isn’t easy to hear in this wide-open space.
At least, it isn’t until she starts yelling.
“Henry was the father of Janie, here. The only man I ever loved. But he left me after I quit school for him, and my parents wouldn’t let me back home. He was crazy and a horrible person. He ruined my life, and I’m glad he’s dead!” With that, Dorothea fumbles at the zipper of her purse.
“Dear God,” Cabe whispers.
The small crowd is completely shocked into silence. Janie rushes over and guides her mother back to the spot where they were standing. She feels her face boiling and red. Sweat drips down her back. She purposely averts her eyes from the guests. Mortified.
It doesn’t help that Dorothea manages to get her purse open and makes only a small effort to hide that she’s taking a swig from the flask.
Rabbi Greenbaum hastens to speak.
Cabe rests his hand on the small of Janie’s back to comfort her. He looks down at the ground and Janie can see the amused look on his face. She feels like stomping on his foot. And pushing her mother into the grave hole. Wonders what sort of sitcom that would turn this scene into.
Janie looks up and catches the rabbi’s attention. “May I say something?” she asks.
“Of course,” Rabbi Greenbaum says, although he looks uncertain.
Janie stays where she’s standing and just looks at the casket. “I’ve known my father for one week,” she says. “I’ve never seen him move, never looked him in the eye. But in that short time, I found out a lot about him. He kept to himself, didn’t bother anybody, just lived the life he was given the best way he knew how.
“He wasn’t crazy,” she continues.
“Was too,” Dorothea mutters.
“He wasn’t crazy,” Janie repeats, ignoring her mother, “he just had an unusual problem that is really hard to explain to anybody who doesn’t understand it.” Her voice catches. She looks at her mother. “I think, and I’ll always believe, that Henry Feingold was a good person. And I am not at all glad he’s dead.” Janie’s lip quivers. It’s like the numbness is suddenly wearing off. “I wish I had him back so I could get to know him.” Tears trickle down her face.
When it is clear that Janie has said all that she has to say, the rabbi leads Kaddish, a prayer. Then he smiles and beckons Janie to come around the other side of the grave, guiding her to the pile of dirt. Cabel takes Dorothea by the arm and follows. There are several shovels on the ground. They each pick one up.
Janie takes a heaping shovelful of dirt and holds it over the hole in the ground. A trickle of dirt slips off and hits the casket below. She can hardly bear to turn the shovel. The rabbi murmurs something about returning to dust, and finally she turns the shovel over. The thud of the dirt on the wood hurts her stomach.
Dorothea does the same, her arms shaking, and Cabel does it too, and slowly each member of the small crowd takes a shovelful of dirt and releases it into the hole. They continue to fill it.
And that’s when Dorothea loses it.
She falls to her knees, almost as if she’s just now realized the truth of it. “Henry!” she cries. Her sobs turn to deep shudders. Janie just stands next to her, unable to help. Unwilling to try to stop it.
Such a mess. Janie can see it now, all the guys at the department talking about Janie’s mother the drunk, the one who ruined a funeral, the one who f*cked around and had an illegitimate daughter and isn’t fit to do much of anything but be an embarrassment. She shakes her head, tears streaming down her cheeks as she gets more dirt.
It doesn’t matter anyway.
When they are finished, the mound of fresh earth tamped off, Janie knows she has to face the guests. Cabel gets Dorothea to the car.
Janie lays her shovel on the ground. She straightens again and Captain is there.
Captain embraces Janie. Holds her. “You did well,” she says. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Janie says, tears flowing fresh again. This isn’t the first time Janie’s cried on Captain’s shoulder. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be.” Captain’s voice is firm—it’s a command. For Janie, it’s nice to have somebody else running the show for a moment, at least. A relief. Captain pats Janie’s back. “Will you be sitting shivah?”
Janie pulls away to look at her. “I don’t think so. What’s that, again?”
Captain smiles. “It’s a time of mourning. It’s usually a week, but whatever you decide.”
Janie shakes her head. “We . . . I don’t . . . I didn’t even know I was half-Jewish until last week. We don’t practice or anything.”
Captain nods. Takes her hand. “Come by my office when you’re ready. No hurry, okay? I think we need to have a talk.”
Janie nods. “Yeah, we do.”
Captain squeezes Janie’s hand and Janie greets the guys from the department. Janie wants to try to explain, apologize for her mother’s behavior, but the guys don’t let her get a word in about it. They offer condolences and by the end, they’re making Janie laugh. Just like always.
It feels good.
Cathy remains by the grave until the guys have left, and then she approaches Janie. “Thank you for the note.”
“He’d be glad to know you came, I think,” Janie says.
“I dropped off a couple more boxes. They’re sitting outside on his step. You want me to return to sender?”
Janie thinks for a moment. “Nah,” she says. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll probably have something that needs to go out tomorrow, then, so . . .” Janie doesn’t want to explain here. She’ll have all the time in the world to talk to Cathy next week.
“Just request a pickup like you did last time on the Internet, okay? I’ll be sure to get them.” Cathy looks at her watch. “I got to get back to work. You take care. I’m real sorry.”
“I think you knew him best of anyone, Cathy. I’m sorry too.”
“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” Cathy looks down. She turns and walks to her truck.
Charlie and Megan embrace Janie in a group hug. “You gonna be all right, kiddo?” Charlie asks.
“Sure, she is,” Megan says. “She’s tough as nails. But we’re here for you if you need us, right?”
Janie nods gratefully, thanking them.
And then Carrie and Stu are there, offering comfort. Stu’s wearing the same shirt and outdated tie that he wore to the senior prom, and it makes Janie smile, remembering. So much has happened since then.
“I can’t believe how many people came,” Janie says. “Thank you. It means a lot.”
Carrie grabs Janie’s hand and squeezes it. “Of course we’d come, you idiot.”
Janie smiles and squeezes back. “Hey,” she says, “where’s your ring?” and then she stops, worried.
Carrie grins and grabs Stu’s hand with her free one. “No worries. We decided that we weren’t quite ready for that, so I gave it back. He’s keeping it safe, aren’t you, honey?”
“Very,” Stu says. “Thing was freaking expensive.”
Janie grins. “I’m glad you guys are doing okay. Thanks again for coming, and Carrie—thanks for all you did.”
“Most entertaining funeral I’ve ever been to,” Carrie says.
Stu and Carrie wave good-bye and walk through the grass to Ethel, swinging hands. Janie watches them go. “Yeah,” she says. “Way to go, Carebear.”
Janie goes over to the strangers who remain in a small group, talking quietly. “Thank you very much for all you’ve done,” Janie says.
One speaks for all of them. “No thanks necessary. It’s an honor to care for the bodies of the deceased. Our sincerest condolences, my dear.”
“I—thanks. Er . . .” Janie blushes. She looks around and spies the rabbi. Goes to say good-bye. Afterward, seeing no one else, Janie makes her way to the car.
“Not one single flower!” Dorothea is saying. “What kind of funeral is that?”
Cabel pats the woman on the hand. “Jews don’t believe in cutting down a living thing to honor the dead, Ms. Hannagan. They don’t do cut flowers.”
Janie closes the door and leans her head back on the seat. It’s nicely cool inside. “How d’you know that, Cabe?” she asks. “Ask-a-rabbi-dot-com?”
Cabel lifts his chin slightly and puts the car into drive. “Maybe.”
4:15 p.m.
When there’s a knock at the screen door, Janie rouses herself from a nap on the couch, her mother safely tucked away in her room. She fluffs her hair and grabs her glasses.
It’s Rabinowitz.
“Hi. Come in,” Janie says, surprised.
He’s carrying a box in one hand and a basket of fruit in the other. He brings them inside and puts them on the kitchen counter. “This is to help sweeten your sorrow,” he says.
Janie is overcome. “Thank you.” The words seem too small to express what she is feeling.
He smiles and excuses himself. “I’m still on duty but I wanted to drop them off. I’m sorry for your loss, Janie.” He waves and ducks out the door.
All of the nice.
All of it.
It only makes it harder.
4:28 p.m.
Lies back down on the couch, full of cake.
Thinks about what happens next.
Knows that soon she’ll say good-bye to Cabe forever.
And that?
Despite the benefits,
Will be the hardest thing she’s ever done.
6:04 p.m.
She walks up Henry’s bumpy driveway, backpack on her back, carrying a suitcase and a bag of clothes. Two forlorn boxes rest in front of the door. Janie goes inside to deposit her stuff and then pulls the boxes inside.
She rips open the first box and pulls out a baby’s snowsuit. Goes over the ancient computer and turns it on. Rifles through the notebook that contains the order log, then opens the file drawer under the table. Repackages the snowsuit and writes the address on the box.
Janie opens the second box. Pulls out a bubble-wrapped package.
A snow globe.
It’s not listed as an item that needs to be shipped out.
It’s for Cathy, she’s sure.
Paris. Janie shakes the globe and watches the golden, glittery snow swirling about the gray plastic Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame.
How stunningly tacky.
Yet totally full of a certain sort of special.
Janie smiles, wraps it up again and puts it back in the box. Writes on the box with a black marker:
TO CATHY, ONE LAST GIFT.
FROM HENRY.
Janie finishes her father’s business and then she searches, and finds, the ancient rental agreement. Discovers that Henry’s been month-to-month since 1987, just mailing in a check faithfully so it arrives by the first of each month. It’ll be easy continuing on from here.
Oh, she’ll let the landlord know Henry passed on. But she’ll make it very tempting for the landlord to accept Janie as the new tenant. She can even pay the first year in advance if she has to.
She shuts down the computer.
Pulls the sheets off the bed and puts them in the little old washing machine. Decides she’s going to clean up the place and sleep here tonight.
Here, in her new home.
It’s such a freaking huge relief.