He walked to the other side of the small room. Sam had not noticed a discreet door built into the wood paneling. He turned the latch, and she saw the brightly lit showroom.
Charlie would not move on her own, so Sam gently led her toward the door. Though Edgar had called this the showroom, Sam had not been expecting to find an actual showroom. Shiny caskets painted in dark earth tones lined the walls. They were tilted at a fifteen-degree angle, their lids opened to display the silk liners. Spotlights illuminated silver and gold handles. An assortment of pillows was in a spinning rack. Sam wondered if mourners checked the softness before making their decision.
Charlie was unsteady on her high heels. “Is this what it was like when your—”
“No,” Sam said. “Anton was cremated. They put him in a pine box.”
“Why didn’t Daddy do that?” Charlie looked down at a jet-black display casket with black satin lining. “I feel like we’re in a Shirley Jackson story.”
Sam turned, remembering Edgar. She mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
He bowed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Sam looked back at Charlie. She had come to a standstill. All of her bluster was gone. She was staring at the front of the room. Two folding chairs draped in pastel blue satin covers. A white casket with gold handles on a stainless steel cart with big, black wheels. The lid was open. Rusty’s head was tilted up on a pillow. Sam could see the peppered gray of his hair, the tip of his nose, and a flash of bright blue from his suit.
Charlie said, “That’s Dad.”
Sam reached for her sister’s hand again, but Charlie was already moving toward their father. Her deliberate stride tapered off quickly. She stuttered to a stop. Her hand went to her mouth. Her shoulders began to shake.
She told Sam, “It’s not him.”
Sam understood what she meant. This was clearly their father, but just as clearly it was not. Rusty’s cheeks were too red. His wild eyebrows had been tamed. His hair, normally sticking up in every direction, was combed into something resembling a pompadour.
Charlie said, “He promised me he would look handsome.”
Sam wrapped her arm around Charlie’s waist.
“When we talked about it, I told him I didn’t want an open casket, and he promised me that he would look handsome. That I would want to see how good he looked.” She told Sam, “He doesn’t look good.”
“No,” Sam said. “He doesn’t look like himself.”
They stared down at their father. Sam could not remember a time that she had not seen Rusty in motion. Lighting a cigarette. Throwing out a dramatic hand. Tapping his toes. Snapping his fingers. Nodding his head as he hummed or clicked his tongue or whistled a tune that she did not recognize, yet could not get out of her brain.
Charlie said, “I don’t want anyone to see him like this.” She reached up to close the lid.
Sam gave a hushed, “Charlie!”
She pulled on the lid. The lid did not move. “Help me close it.”
“We can get—”
“I don’t want that creepy asshole back in here.” Charlie pulled with both hands. The lid moved perhaps five degrees before it stopped. “Help me.”
“I’m not going to help you.”
“What was your list? You can’t see, you can’t run, you can’t process? I don’t recall you saying your useless body couldn’t help close the fucking lid on your own father’s coffin.”
“It’s a casket. Coffins are tapered at the head and foot.”
“For fucksake.” Charlie dropped her purse on the floor. She kicked off her shoes. She used both hands to pull down on the lid, practically hanging from it.
There was a creak of protest, but the casket remained open.
Sam said, “It won’t simply close. That would be a safety hazard.”
“You mean, it could kill him if the lid slammed shut?”
“I mean it could hit you in the head or break your fingers.” She leaned over Rusty to examine the brass barrel hinges. A cloth-covered strap and loop assembly kept the lid from over-opening, but no apparent mechanism controlled the closing. “There must be some kind of release.”
“Jesus Christ.” Charlie hung from the lid again. “Can’t you just help me?”
“I am trying—”
“I’ll do it myself.” Charlie walked around to the back of the casket. She pushed from behind. The table moved. One of the front wheels was unlocked. Charlie pushed harder. The table moved again.
“Hold on.” Sam checked the exterior of the casket for some kind of lever or button. “You’re going to—”
Charlie jumped up, pushing down on the lid with all of her weight.
Sam said, “You’re going to knock it off the table.”
“Good.” Charlie pushed again. Nothing moved. She banged her palm against the lid. “Fuck!” She banged it again, this time with her closed fist. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
Sam ran her fingers inside the edge of the silk liner. She found a button.
There was a loud click.
The pneumatic pump hissed as the lid slowly closed.
“Shit.” Charlie was breathless. She leaned her hands on the closed casket. She closed her eyes. She shook her head. “He leaves us with a metaphor.”
Sam sat down in the chair.
“You’re not going to say anything?”
“I’m reflecting.”
Charlie’s laugh was cut off by a sob. Her shoulders trembled as she cried. Her tears fell onto the top of the casket. Sam watched them roll down the side, bend around the stainless steel table, then drop onto the floor.
“Shit,” Charlie said, using the back of her hand to wipe her nose. She found a box of tissues behind the handle display. She blew her nose. She dried her eyes. She sat down heavily in the chair beside Sam.
They both looked at the casket. The gaudy, gold handles and filigree corner guards. The bright white paint had a sparkling finish, as if glitter had been mixed into the clear-coat.
Charlie said, “I can’t believe how ugly that thing is.” She threw away the used tissue. She snagged another from the box. “It looks like something Elvis was buried in.”
“Do you remember when we went to Graceland?”
“That white Cadillac.”
Rusty had charmed the attendant into letting him sit behind the wheel. The paint on the Fleetwood had been the same bright white as the casket. Diamond dust had brought out the sparkle.
“Dad could talk anybody into letting him do anything.” Charlie wiped her nose again. She sat back in the chair. Her arms were crossed.
Sam could hear a clock ticking somewhere, a kind of metronome that synched with the beating of her heart. Her fingers still held the memory of the tap-tap-tap of Rusty’s blood rushing through his veins. She had spent two days begging Charlie to unburden herself, but her own sins weighed far heavier.
Sam said, “I couldn’t let him die. My husband. I couldn’t let him go.”