Funeral with a View (2 page)

It was a normal early
Saturday evening during a typical New Jersey summer.

Hot and humid.

Shortly after six, Bill
had showed up at Cat’s apartment. He’d called earlier, lamenting a failed lunch
date with a woman he’d met somewhere or other. We were lounging on her patio,
sipping umbrella drinks when she took the call. Me, drinking alcohol garnished
with miniature umbrellas. The things you do for love.

We were already half in
the bag when Bill sauntered up.

“Hey guys. What’s going
on?” he said as he strolled around back. The only thing slicker than his hair
was his tan. He took off his sunglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, a
massive bicep threatening to rip the seams of his polo shirt.

Catherine wore a dark red
bikini top and tight-fitting cutoff jean shorts, a sheen of sweat just
beginning to form around her cleavage, a product of drinking and sunbathing.
She wore her strawberry blond hair long back then, and the sun illuminated it
like a sexy crown.

“Just being lazy, having
a few drinks in the sun. How’ve you been, honey? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

The term of endearment
didn’t bother me. She’d always been affectionate.

Catherine
flip-flopped
over to him in her sandals and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Date was that bad, huh?”
she said, one hand on the small of his back.

He gave a half-grunt,
half-laugh. “You could say that. What a nut job. Two dates in and she starts in
with talk about kids. ‘I want kids. Do you want kids? I so totally would love
kids. The more the better. The sooner the better.’ Seriously? Kids? I’m twenty-three.
I don’t want kids. Ever.”

Catherine laughed, a soft
and contagious sound.

I held up my glass. “Want
one? Don’t cost nothin’.”

“Yeah. I could use a
drink. Thanks, man.”

I came back with Bill’s
drink and handed it to him, the glass already sweating in the summer heat.

“There you go, Bill.
Drink up. The night’s young and we have plenty more booze where that came from.”
I punctuated my alcoholic offering with a series of hiccups.

Bill waved his hand in
front of his nose. “Smells like you two’ve been at this a while. You bathe in
the shit?”

Catherine swatted his
shoulder. “All the easier for you to take advantage of us, big sexy.”

The drinks went down
easier and easier as the day wore on. Dusk approached, and the sky turned an
amazing tapestry of pinks, golds, and purples. Crickets and cicadas were in
full song.

We fell into a buzzed
silence, one which Catherine was the first to break.

“Soooo. Anybody up for
some strip poker?”

The summer bugs’ chorus
stopped on a dime. Maybe they were as surprised by her question as I was. Could
have been the sound of me coughing on my drink that shut them up. Who knows?

Bill, the most sober of
our merry group, answered first.

“I’m game if you guys
are.”

I blew out a long breath
and put my hand on the railing to steady myself. Yep. Hammered.

“Sure, why the hell not?”

Catherine moseyed over to
me, a little wobbly, and gave me a wet kiss on the lips. “That’s what I like
about you, Ricky. You’re not afraid of a good time.”

“Mr. Fun.”
Hiccup
.
“That’s me. Let’s head in. I’ll get the cards.”

Bill and Catherine
chatted in the living room while I searched the kitchen drawers.

“Hon, what’s taking so
long? If you’re seeing triple, reach for the cards in the middle.” Catherine
giggled.

“S’okay,” I slurred, and
looked over my shoulder. They sat across from one another, she on the
secondhand love seat, Bill on the matching recliner. Those two items, a glass-top
wicker table, and a smallish color television atop a build-it-yourself stand comprised
the entire ‘living’ area. “Jussst be a second.”

More rummaging.

More noise.

A little more rummaging.

“Ah-hah! Eureka. Got 'em,
guys,” I hiccupped. “One deck of official get naked poker cards coming right
up.” I hoisted them over my head, victorious.

I turned on my heel,
quite ungracefully, and headed for the living room.

And I’d have made it, too,
if I hadn’t tripped over my own two drunken feet and fallen flat on my face.

“Ow.”

Catherine rushed over and
knelt next to me while Bill tried to hold back his laughter.

“Jesus, Rick. Are you okay?”

Grumble.

“Say again?”

“M’fine.”

Catherine helped me onto
my side, and whispered in my ear. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to do
this, Ricky. I’ll be fine either way.”

My eyelids fluttered. I
leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Sweet, full, moist lips.

“It’s cool,” I whispered.
“Harmless fun. I’m fine. Honest. Just a little bump.”

“As long as you’re sure,
tough guy.” She helped me up. “We’ve got a guest to entertain, ya big lush.”

Baby steps out of the
kitchen.

Baby steps into the
living room.

Baby steps to the love
seat.

Catherine sat me in the
love seat. Bill quietly observed the whole episode with twisted fascination.

“Good thing you have that
hard head, Rick. I don’t think we’re in any condition to bring you to the
emergency room.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” I
dumped the cards on the glass tabletop. “What game are we playing again?”

A raging hangover and the
musky smell of sex awaited me the following morning.

“What the hell?” I sat up.
The sudden change in elevation sent waves of pain through my head. “Ow.”

I squinted my eyes in
defense against the sunlight trickling in through the blinds and surveyed the
room.

Catherine was curled up
in a compact, sexy ball next to me, completely naked. Her hair was a mess of
tangled gold.

On the nightstand, next
to an empty box of Kleenex, sat a box of Trojans, torn open as if by a wild
boar in the night. Condom wrappers,
lots
of condom wrappers, littered
the floor like XXX confetti after an AVN ticker tape parade. They were on the
floor, the foot of the bed, the nightstand. One even found its way into the
blinds, wedged between a pair of slats.

Catherine continued to
snore as I made my way out of the bed.

I padded my way into the
kitchen and fired up a pot of coffee. With the machine bubbling away, I walked
out into the living room, determined to plop on the couch, when I noticed my
boxers draped over the edge of the coffee table. On top of them was a note.

“Hey guys. Thanks for
the poker game and the free booze. It was ... something else. Sorry I couldn’t
stay. I thought it would be best if I wasn’t there when you woke up. Don’t
worry, I didn’t drive home drunk. Stay good. XOXO, Bill. P.S.—The XOXO wasn’t
for you, Rick. You homo. P.S.S.—Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

I sunk into the couch and
pinched the bridge of my nose.

Drinking. Bill
visiting. Strip poker. Then …

“Oh, my head. Do I smell
coffee?” Catherine walked over, hand on her head. “What time is it?” She
pointed at the note and sat down next to me. “Whatcha reading?”

“Yes, you smell coffee.
It’s about seven-thirty, and this,” I handed her the note, “is from Bill.”

“Bill?”

I nodded. “Bill.”

Catherine rubbed at her
eyes, blinked, then read to herself.

I watched as recollection
pierced the veil of her hangover. Other than a chirping bird and bubbling
coffee maker, the room was silent.

She set the note down.

“Shit.” She chewed her
bottom lip. Enter buyer’s remorse. “I’m sorry, Ricky.”

“Sorry? For what?”

“For forcing you into an
all-night three-way with your best friend. I feel like such a slut.”

“Hey, come here.” I
pulled her head to my shoulder. “We were drunk, but we weren’t
that
drunk.
Okay, maybe
I
was that drunk, but I knew what was going on. Nobody forced
anybody to do anything.”

“But it was all my idea.”

“Doesn’t matter. We all
agreed to it, and that’s that.”

After a period of
silence, she nodded. “So we’re okay?”

“Okay? Of course. Absolutely.
Better than okay. We’re going to be A-okay. Totally okay. Off the charts okay.”

Things were sure to be
weird for a while, but I liked her too much to let something as insignificant
as having shared her with my best friend for what amounted to an entire night’s
rendition of
Caligula
be our ruination.

Catherine let out a
breath. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Um, what happened last
night isn’t something you’d like to, you know, repeat, is it?”

“No. Once was enough.”

“Me either. I don’t think
I have it in me to live the swinger lifestyle. The drinking to get over the
shyness would kill me. And I’d have to buy a bunch of robes. Swingers always
have a ton of robes. There’s no way I could afford it.”

She swatted me on the
shoulder. “You’re nuts, you know that?”

“I’m nuts about you is
what I am.” She cuddled even closer. “And …” The sentence hung in the air,
unfinished. My fragile male ego had made its presence known and I was suddenly
overcome with a feeling of doubt.

“And what?”

“Nothing. It’s silly.”

She sat up and eyed me
curiously. “I can tell it’s not ‘nothing’. Come on. Tell me.”

I took a deep breath. “Well,
I just had doubts in the back of my mind that, you know …” I trailed off for a
moment. “You know. Maybe you liked Bill more than me. That maybe you liked
being
with him more.”

She took my face in her
hands, looking me straight in the eyes. “Rick, listen to me. No. No way. I like
Bill. As a
friend.
Last night was a whim, a fantasy realized by way too
much alcohol. I don’t know what came over me. Booze? The opportunity to
experiment some? I won’t lie. It was hot, but I care about you,
not
Bill. Not in that way. I have no desire to be with him like that ever again. When
you and I are together, it’s fantastic. I never had the spark with him that I
have with you.”

“So we’re good then?”

She smiled at me, her expression
softening, then attempted the worst impression of all time. “Good? Of course.
Absolutely. Better than good. We’re going to be A-okay good. Totally good. Off
the charts good.”

“Is that supposed to be
me?” I laughed. “I think I’ll need some coffee to cleanse my palette of that
awful performance. Want some?”

“Yes, jerk. I’d love
some.”

Okay. A-okay. Totally
okay. Off the charts okay.

I liked the sound of
that.

Bill’s late.

He was at the wake last
night—big and handsome as ever—but as of this morning, with less than an hour
to go before everyone heads out to the cemetery, he’s nowhere to be seen
.

As my best and oldest
friend, the duty falls to him to eulogize me. Or should I say honor? Just kidding.
I don’t think
that
highly of myself.

From my perch near the
ceiling, I see my mother. She’s seated next to Catherine. My daughter, Celeste,
is absent at the moment. She’s most likely outside with her twin cousins,
Catherine’s sister’s kids. I’d go out and see her if I could.

Death is nothing like I’d
imagined. While I’d always expected a big, black nothing, I’d entertained
notions of unearthly white lights, harps, comforting music, St. Peter, and an all-powerful
creator sitting on a majestic throne ushering me in to join the flock. Instead,
I’m stuck in the here and now.

To go one step further, I
can’t travel very far from my body. I feel … tethered to it. Try to wander too
far and my whole existence becomes a thick, fuzzy static before I’m pulled back
to my empty shell.

This phenomenon started
before the funeral parlor. Shortly after being pulled away from my dead body, I
found myself hovering over it in the morgue. But I wasn’t alone. Catherine was
there, identifying my remains. Talk about unpleasant. There was nothing I
wanted more than the ability to manifest myself and absorb her suffering for
her. I would have done it in a heartbeat, but it wasn’t to be. I’ve never felt
so helpless. With the completion of that heart-wrenching scene, I was tugged
along to the mortician’s magic workshop.

For some reason I’m
following my lifeless body like a lost puppy dog that has suddenly grown
attached to an attentive stranger. Maybe it’s got something to do with being
laid to rest. I’m not here to haunt anybody. If I were, it would be that beer
truck driver.

It’s frustrating, not
being able to go to the window and observe my daughter. I’m frozen in an undetermined
radius, an ethereal planet caught in the gravitational pull of a body whose
life vacated it a week ago.

Shit. I hope this
condition doesn’t persist after I’m buried. I don’t want to be a ghoul haunting
the damn cemetery.

But I shouldn’t think of
those things now. It’s likely to drive me insane.

Instead, I think I’ll go
see my mother.

As I float toward her, I hear
the familiar sentiments being thrown around between people sitting in the
parlor gallery, the audience of my family’s theater of mourning.

“... those flowers from
his office are so lovely …”

“… too young … he was
much too young …”

“… what a crappy way to
go … getting hit by a beer truck of all things ...”

“... honey, don’t pick
your nose. Use a tissue …”

“... who’s going to pick
up the slack at work now that Rick’s gone?”

“… did you see Sandy at
the wake? So hot.”

“… see how tense Bill was
last night?”

“… the little one doesn’t
know what to make of all of this …”

“… wonder how much that
coffin cost. Did you see that thing? It’s nicer than some of the cars I’ve had …”

Hey! Why shouldn’t I rate
a good coffin? I’d heard the funeral director tell my wife that it was their
‘Cadillac’ of caskets.

“So many flowers,” Mom
says. “I haven’t seen this many since my husband’s funeral.”

“They’re so pretty. But
I’m sure Ricky would say they’re a waste of money.”

My wife knows me well.

“I can’t imagine how hard
this is for you, Beth.” Catherine takes the offered tissue from my mother, dabs
away some tears. “First your husband all those years ago and now your … I just
can’t imagine what it’s like to lose your only child.”

“No parent should ever
have to outlive their children. But this isn’t just hard on me.” She places a
veiny hand on Catherine’s. “Celeste is still so young. It’s a waste. A stupid,
horrible waste.”

My mother is so careworn.
I’ve never seen her look this old. Well over sixty, she’s no spring chicken,
but try telling her that.

Beth Franchitti has
always been a larger than life character to me. My dad died when I was ten and
she picked up the mantle of mother and father without missing a beat. We played
catch together, raced Matchbox cars, we even tried our hand at fishing although
we sucked at it. Never once did my mother complain or feel sorry for herself.
She mourned my father’s passing, but with a tireless energy and fury of spirit.
She held her head up high and fought to live life.

Even nearing her twilight
years, she dances, cooks, travels. Thinking about half the things she’s been
doing makes
me
tired. And I’m dead. That should tell you something.

But now? Her age clings
to her like a second skin.

“Speaking of. Where is
the little one?”

“She’s outside playing
with Sam and Jeff. Jude is out there with them. She’s at that age where she
understands death to a certain degree, but all this,” Catherine makes a
sweeping gesture, “is a bit too much for her.”

Sam and Jeff, or should I
say, Samantha and Jeffrey, are my sister in law’s pre-teen twins. My wife is
right. Celeste should be outside in the sun playing, not in here amongst all
the sorrow. There will be plenty of time for that later. Let her enjoy her
cousins.

My spritely little
daughter is the light of my life. It sounds like a cliché, but it’s the truth.
For me the sun rises and sets by Celeste. She’s at that age where she’s old
enough to be her own little person, but not too cool to still be into Mommy and
Daddy.

I may be proud poppa now,
but there was a time when the prospect of kids scared the living shit out of
me.