Alice Bliss (31 page)

Soon Alice is so drenched that her sneakers and her clothes grow heavy and start to make squishing sounds. But somewhere in the road beneath her feet, or the rain on her face, somewhere in the cadence of her stride, in the rhythm of her breathing there is solace. A moment, a small sliver of light, a pause, a breath.

Sustenato
, Henry would say, pressing that pedal at the piano. Sustaining.

Angie sends Alice back upstairs to change her clothes for the “hours” at the funeral parlor. Wearing black jeans and one of her dad’s polo shirts has been deemed inappropriate, disrespectful, and annoying beyond belief.

She is frantically searching her closet for the black skirt and white blouse she wears for chorus concerts. The skirt is on the highest shelf rolled into a ball. She tries to smooth out the wrinkles as she pulls it on, but she still can’t find the white blouse. She tears into her parents’ bedroom and grabs her mom’s cream silk blouse off its hanger and pulls it on over her head. Shoes, shoes, shoes. Back to her room. Her flats from the dance. A scrunchie goes around her wrist; she’ll fix her hair in the car. She doesn’t really understand how her body can be moving so fast when her mind is stuck in slow motion, when her mind is still in bed, still dreaming about last year and last spring and the days and the weeks and the hours before all of this happened.

Running downstairs she can see that the front door has been left open and everyone is already in the car. Uncle Eddie, almost unrecognizable in a suit and tie, is at the wheel; Gram and Ellie are in the backseat. Alice thinks, I can’t do this, I can’t go through the motions, I can’t stand in a room with my father in a casket and talk to everyone; I can’t do this.

She sees her mom lean over Uncle Eddie in the front seat to give the horn a long blast, and on the wave of that sound, she propels herself through the door, slamming it behind her, running down to the street and the car and her family and the final ritualized steps of letting go of her father.

Another funeral director, one of Allison Mahoney’s brothers, meets them at the back door. There is a line of people out the front door, down the sidewalk, and around Middle Street. He ushers them into the room with the coffin and the flowers and the folding chairs and a book to sign on its own stupid, phony stand, and all Alice can see is the coffin. There are so many flowers the smell is taking up all the air in the room. The late-afternoon sun is slanting into sunset outside, while inside the shades are drawn and the lights are on. Alice is ready to bolt, when Uncle Eddie rests his hand on the small of her back. Suddenly she sees the roof and the ladder and remembers her father with his hand on her back telling her to breathe.

The funeral director says that they will have a few moments alone in the room with Matt before they open the doors to the neighbors, to the baseball players and the teachers and the firemen and the wives and the children of the other men in his unit, and all the rest of the world. How did her father know so many people?

Angie walks in first and kneels at the coffin, Ellie beside her. Alice recoils; she turns her back on her mother and her sister and the coffin and all that it contains.

She suddenly wants Henry. Where is Henry? Why isn’t he here?

Gram is at her side.

“I’ll go up with you.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Gram—”

“These are hard things.”

“I
can’t
, Gram.”

“You have to think about what you can do for your father now.”

Alice begins to back away from her grandmother.

“You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t do this.”

“Gram—”

“Never.”

Alice lets Gram take her hand and lead her up to the coffin. They kneel together. Alice is looking down at her clasped hands; Alice is looking at her grandmother’s hands; Alice is looking anywhere but at the figure in the coffin, at the uniform that is not her father, that is something else, someone else, because it is still not possible to believe that her father could be dead and cold and lifeless and gone.

Gram stands and leans over and kisses him. She kisses Matt on the forehead and touches his crossed hands, as though this is normal, as though he will feel her touch and her warmth. When Alice stands up she can smell her mother’s perfume as it is released from the creamcolored blouse. She takes hold of the edge of the coffin to keep from falling. She closes her eyes. She feels a reassuring hand again on the small of her back. Gram.

Alice lifts her head and opens her eyes and looks at her father. Now she can’t get enough of looking at him. He is not the same; he is not the same at all. But what there is, what there still is, right here in front of her, close enough to touch, is this broken body, this man, this soldier. Her father. Hers.

She reaches out and covers his hands with her own. And with that touch, she knows that she will never see his eyes again, his smile again, she will never see him pick up a hammer, or stake a row of tomatoes, or drive a car, or twine his hand in the hair at the nape of her mother’s neck.

She lets herself be led away by Gram. The family is receiving instructions from Allison Mahoney; she is telling them where to find the restrooms, where they can take a break from the receiving line to sit down, how they should arrange themselves in line. She will be standing right behind them, she tells them. She will do what she can to keep the line moving. It looks like it is going to be a long night. They can cut it off whenever they want, if they can’t go on. People will understand.

Somehow Alice had not really paid attention to the fact that she would be standing in this room, while friends and neighbors came through to pay their respects and speak to the family. Mom, safely hidden behind her glasses, had instructed Alice and Ellie on shaking hands and saying a simple thank you, but Alice had not imagined facing all of these people.

“Mom,” she says.

“Not now, Alice.”

“What do I do if I feel sick?”

“Go to the restroom.”

“Can I go home?”

“Now?”

“If I get sick—”

“You’re not going to get sick. Stop being so dramatic. Mom, can you deal with Alice, please?”

“
Mom
.”

“
What?”

“I can’t handle it.”

“This isn’t about you, Alice. Pull yourself together.”

Gram takes Alice by the hand, which only makes Alice angry. She pulls away and stands in sullen, stubborn silence, looking at the floor, shaking hands without looking up or saying anything, until her mother reaches around behind Gram and pinches her. Then, shivering, with cold, sweaty palms, Alice shakes hand after hand, and thanks friends and neighbors and perfect strangers for their condolences. She keeps glancing at the coffin as if she could draw strength from her father, but there are always people kneeling or standing there, blocking her view.

Mrs. Piantowski comes through the line with baby Inga in her arms. She speaks for some minutes to Alice’s mother and when she stands in front of Alice, she does the most unexpected thing; she pulls her into a quick embrace and says:

“Come sit down with us for a minute.”

Alice looks to her mother who nods permission. Mrs. Piantowski leads Alice to one of the waiting chairs. Alice sits facing the coffin, and Mrs. Piantowski puts baby Inga in Alice’s arms. Inga is a sleepy, yielding bundle. When Alice brings her close she molds her little body against her. Mrs. Piantowski has one hand on Alice’s shoulder and one hand on Inga’s back. She is sheltering them, making a safe space for Alice to catch her breath, to find herself again. Alice listens to Inga breathe amid the noise and the hush of this room, this odd, nowhere place where they are all suspended between life and death. How strange to have a dead man in their midst; how strange to visit a dead man to say good-bye, how strange to hold a baby in a place like this.

Mrs. Piantowski is humming right into baby Inga’s ear, and Mrs. Piantowski’s warmth and the baby’s warmth is somehow warming Alice. She has stopped shivering finally. Alice looks up at her own mother who meets her glance and smiles at her before someone else moves down the receiving line and blocks her view.

There are people waiting in the anteroom, and there is a line out the door and down the sidewalk. Matt’s baseball team is here, spilling through the doorway, nearly unable to contain their physical energy in this room of stillness. B.D. and Ginger are right behind them.

She looks at her family in the receiving line. For the first time she notices what a small group they are. Matt’s parents are dead and buried ten years or more. His brother, Mark, who works for the Congo Basin Forest Partnership with U.S. AID, is on site in the rain forest. They don’t know if their telegram has reached him. So there’s only Angie and Gram and Uncle Eddie and Alice and Ellie to wake and bury Matt. And now she’s remembering her great aunt Beryl on the phone from the nursing home, “It’s a good thing your Grammy and Grampy didn’t live to see this.”

Ellie is standing next to Angie now. In her favorite spring green dress, her new haircut, and her new glasses, she is kind and polite and efficient; she is a miniature mom. How can she do that? Is she pretending, playing a part, so she won’t feel anything?

Here is Lillian Balfour, just arrived from San Francisco, her mom’s best friend. Behind her in the line are the Hoyts, her parents’ close friends from the old neighborhood, and oh, God, there’s Johnny Mason, Matt’s oldest friend, the fancy lawyer all the way up from Virginia, with his wife and his three little kids. And Mr. and Mrs. Holscher. This is too much, Alice thinks; this is unreal.

She can’t believe it. Stephie Larson and her parents are in line behind the Holschers. Stephie has her head down, and she is crying so hard her dad has to put his arm around her to steady her. He says something to her and she looks up and sees Alice. She lifts her hand in a wave. Alice tries to smile but can’t tell if she actually does or not; it feels like her face is frozen.

Lillian walks right up and puts her arms around Angie, Lillian with her red hair and artsy clothes, and Angie is losing it, Alice can see it from here. Her mother’s face has gone bright and blotchy and she is fighting back tears. Only with Lillian here, she can’t win this fight, with Lillian here, she can no longer pretend she is just going through the motions, or it’s all a bad dream, or somehow, somehow she will wake up tomorrow and find Matt peacefully asleep beside her. All of these people, these caring, lovely people, each one like a hammer blow, each one striking a gong, ringing a bell: he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone.

Uncle Eddie stands in front of Angie, shielding her from the people waiting in line, giving her a moment to collect herself. He pulls a flask from his back pocket and hands it to her. Both Lillian and Angie drink from it, Lillian even manages to giggle and snort the way she usually does before Eddie takes a good long pull and they are back in business. Lillian positions herself just behind Ellie, one hand on Ellie’s shoulder, one hand on Angie’s shoulder. Not in the way, not obtrusive, but there, solidly there beside her friend.

Henry is in front of the coffin now, Alice notices with a start. Henry and his mother and his father. Henry is kneeling for a long time; she can see Mrs. Grover urge him to his feet, but not before Henry places something in the coffin. He can’t look up as he goes through the receiving line. He shuffles and shakes hands and hangs his head. He makes his way to a chair in the back of the room with his parents. He is trying to compose himself before he speaks to Alice, and he is having a mighty hard time of it; nothing he can say to himself can change the unalterable facts of this day.

“That’s my best friend,” she tells Mrs. Piantowski.

“Henry Grover, yes?”

“Can I show him baby Inga? Can I let him hold her?”

“Yes, you can.”

Alice crosses to Henry and nods to Mr. and Mrs. Grover, who make room for her to sit across from him. Henry is looking at his hands and weeping. He hasn’t cried like this in years. He feels the fool, the total fool, but he can’t stop. He is undone by Alice’s father lying in the coffin. All of his magical thinking, that somehow this could all come right; all of his hopes and wishes for Alice, for her family, all undone by the simple fact of the coffin and the body within it.

Alice leans in and speaks to him. He tries to tell her that he’s sorry but can’t find his voice. She places baby Inga in his arms. He has to unclasp his hands to take the baby; he has to pay attention to keep from jostling her or dropping her. He has never held a baby before; he must be doing this all wrong. Alice has one hand on Inga’s back and one hand on Henry’s arm. They are knee to knee and he is holding the baby, he is actually holding the baby, without disaster. When Henry dares to look up at Alice he is met by her bruised eyes. She is saving me, he thinks. I should be helping her and she is saving me.

“Inga likes it when you sing to her.”

Does she remember, he wonders? Did she hear him that night when he thought she was asleep?

Alice leans in close to him: “What were you doing up there? Did you put something in the coffin?”

“A baseball. And a picture of you and me when we were six and you were wearing that bathing suit you like so much.”

“I didn’t bring anything with me. No one told me.”

In a panic she tries to think what she has with her that she can put inside the coffin. But she doesn’t carry a purse, or a wallet. She needs time to think about this, to plan. She has no coins in her pocket to weight his eyes, she has no picture to slip into his hands, or a stone from Small Point, or an old, handmade iron hinge, or a roofing shingle, or a drawing of the garden.

“We could go back and get something for you. If you know what you want,” Henry offers.

Baby Inga starts to cry. Mrs. Piantowski picks her up and she quiets immediately.