Going to the Chapel (13 page)

“You’d have to talk to Cassie about flowers, especially if it turns out that they need to go to Palm Springs,” I say and then clear my throat. “And about measuring. I’m not sure that there would be—”

“Oh, well, Jerry’s there,” Aunt Ruth says as though something is finally working out right. “Why didn’t I think of that? He can get the measurements I need.
That will keep Inga happy. There’s no reason for Elaine or me to go crawling around on the floor of some simple little chapel making sure the carpet rug will fit between the pews, especially when we probably won’t even have the wedding there.”

“It’s not simple. It’s beautiful.”

“I’m sure it is, dear,” Aunt Ruth says in a voice that indicates she’s not sure of that at all. “There’s probably not room to lay the carpet rug anyway.”

“Carpet rug?”

“Well, of course, a bride needs a white carpet so she can walk down the aisle. That’s almost as important as the walls and the ceiling.”

“Of course.” I nod. “And, don’t worry—I’ll only look for new places that have an aisle.”

“Let me talk to Jerry,” Aunt Ruth says. She’s sounding more like herself now that she has someone to boss around. “I’ll tell him what needs to be measured.”

“Back to you,” I say to Jerry as I hand the phone back to him.

I let Jerry talk to Aunt Ruth while I go into the bedroom and get dressed for work. Actually, it’s turning out to be a good thing that Jerry is here. He can hold the aunts off with all of his measuring tasks while I try to find a different place for Elaine’s wedding.

“Do you have a tape measure?” Jerry asks when I come out of the bedroom in my black suit.

“I think Cassie has a yardstick,” I say. She uses it to keep track of how tall her potted plants are growing. “It’s over beside the refrigerator.”

Cassie has apparently already left for work. I look at the counter next to the door and see she’s taken the papers for Doug. That’s good. Cassie always does what she says she will. Other people could take lessons from her.

I look at Jerry. “I thought you said you were going to help Cassie today. Shouldn’t you go to work with her?”

Jerry is pulling the yardstick out from beside the refrigerator. I forgot the thing is broken off at the two-foot mark.

“What good is this?” Jerry asks.

“It works fine for measuring plant growth,” I say. “Maybe when Cassie brings a larger plant back she’ll need to get a longer ruler. Remember you were going to help her move that ficus back here.”

“I can only do one thing at a time,” Jerry snaps back at me. “And Aunt Ruth is going hysterical.”

“She sounded okay to me on the phone.”

“Well, of course, she’s not going to yell at you on the phone. You’re her backup plan. With me, it was measure this and measure that. What am I? I can only do one thing at a time. I kept trying to tell her that I didn’t have a tape to do that with, but she said the wedding chapel would have one.”

“Oh.” Of course, the Big M has an impressive assortment of measuring devices. Tape measures. Yardsticks. Foot-long rulers. We’ve got them all. I have just realized now, though, that for Jerry to measure anything at the Big M, he has to actually come down to the place. Once he sees the Big M in business, he will know what’s going on.

“You do have a tape measure where you work, don’t you?” Jerry asks me. “I’m not spending twenty bucks
going out to buy some measuring tape just to please Aunt Ruth.”

I try to smile and look natural. The Jerry of old used to be able to smell fear in the same way a dog could. I need to look as though there’s nothing to hide.

“Oh, sure, we have plenty of measuring devices,” I say and pause. “Before we go there, though, I’m wondering if it wouldn’t be better for you to move plants today and do the measuring tomorrow.”

“And have Aunt Ruth breathing down my neck for another day? No way.”

I’d forgotten I am wearing my black suit. A black suit gives a person a dignity that others just naturally follow. I stand up straight. “I’m afraid today won’t be a convenient day for you to measure in the chapel.”

“Some movie star getting married?” Jerry asks as he puts the broken yardstick on the table and turns to me. “That would be great. It might make Aunt Ruth stand up and take notice of your chapel. Who is it?”

“The names of people using the chapel are confidential,” I say. Which is true. I think. I know it’s true with hospitals and death should be as private as any illness.

“Oh,” Jerry says. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to meet you when you leave work. Cassie can show me where it is. She gave me directions to her shop and it looks pretty easy.”

“I don’t know when I’ll get off tonight,” I say a little desperately. “And, I’m going to be looking for other places to have Elaine’s wedding so I might work late.”

I can get a lot of calls made on my lunch hour and Miss Billings might have some suggestions.

“Besides,” I continue. “You’ll have a long day with moving those plants. You’ll be tired. Maybe you should just take it easy tonight. You could even stop someplace and take Cassie to dinner.”

A deep flush crawls up Jerry’s face. “Do you think she would go? Out with me, I mean?”

I shrug. “I don’t see why not.”

Actually, I can see several reasons why not, but I’m not going to go into them here. It’s mostly just things Jerry did in the past that destroyed any hope I had of him turning into a caring human being. I guess, though, we can’t judge everyone by what they did when they were ten years old.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Jerry says. He doesn’t sound too happy about it. “She wouldn’t want to upset you so she’d say yes even if going out with me was the last thing she wanted to do.”

“I don’t think it would be the last thing she’d want to do,” I say cautiously. I don’t want to encourage Jerry just in case he isn’t genuinely interested in Cassie. “I thought you were interested in Mona, that wedding planner, anyway.”

“Well, that’s going nowhere.”

Wait a minute. It just occurred to me. “But you must have some idea where she is. You would not have taken off from your job unless you thought you knew where the wedding planner would be.”

“I was already taking time off from my job to help with the wedding,” Jerry says. “Boy, I can tell you I’d rather rebuild an old engine that has its bolts all rusted shut than run around helping with this wedding. All that candle business. It drives a person crazy.”

“Someone has to do it.”

“Yeah, well,” Jerry looks uncomfortable. “I guess I should be getting down to the floral shop and start lifting things for Cassie.”

I look at the clock.

“Yeah, well, I need to get to work, too,” I say as I pick up my purse and loop it over my shoulder.

I notice Jerry carries his duffel bag with him when he leaves the apartment with me. I wonder if he’s worried about whether or not we’ll let him in tonight. He offers to drop me off at my job on his way to the floral shop, but I decline.

“So is the place you work a pit, or what?” Jerry says as he opens the door to his pickup truck. “You seem very anxious to keep me away from there.”

So, Cousin Jerry had picked up a few brain cells lately.

“It looks like a European cathedral,” I say.

Jerry grunts as he climbs into his cab. “Then what’s the big problem?”

“There’s not a big problem.”

“Yeah, and the moon ain’t made of cottage cheese.”

“We all know it’s not,” I say. That cottage cheese and the moon remark was one of those annoying things Jerry used to say when we were growing up. He said he heard some detective on television say that, but I never heard it. I doubt you have either.

I think Jerry was just making things up in his head, because, back then, he wanted to be a detective when he grew up. Personally, I always thought it was all just an excuse so he could spy on people with those things in his Greatest Detectives of the World Kit and feel justified in doing so. I was jealous when he got that de
tective kit for Christmas one year. All I ever got were frilly little dolls.

I would tell Jerry again that the moon isn’t made of any kind of cheese, but he’s already got his door closed and he’s starting his pickup truck. So, I just shake my head, and turn in the other direction to walk to the bus stop. I’m hoping Miss Billings will have a minute to talk when I get to the Big M. She knows more about Hollywood than anyone I know and I can count on her to have some suggestions for places where people can hold a wedding.

Miss Billings is with a client when I get to work. Usually, she leaves the clients to the customer representatives, but she takes any special clients that are less than three feet tall. She must have been waiting for me because I don’t even have a chance to start the filing before she comes into the break room to find me.

“Oh, good, you’re here.” Miss Billings looks ready to burst. “I told my little friend, Breanna, that you would sit with her for a while and tell her the Cinderella story.”

“Cinderella?”

“All little girls love that story,” Miss Billings says as she impatiently gestures for me to follow her. “You remember it, don’t you?”

“Sure. Wicked stepmother. Jealous stepsisters. Pumpkin at twelve and don’t forget your shoe.” I follow Miss Billings out into the lobby area and then into one of the consultation rooms.

“Ah,” I say almost involuntarily.

“This is Breanna,” Miss Billings says brightly with a nod at the little girl curled up on the couch.

The little girl doesn’t smile at either Miss Billings or me. She does, however, acknowledge us with a fierce scowl. Her face is red and I’d guess she’s either been crying or throwing a temper tantrum, or both.

“Miss Julie is going to tell you a story now,” Miss Billings says to the girl as she starts to back out of the room.

Then she turns to me and whispers in an aside as she passes me on her way to the door. “She doesn’t want a lamb. Or a lollipop. Or a hug.”

I notice one of Miss Billing’s stuffed lambs lying on the floor with its ear torn off and take another look at the deepening scowl on Breanna’s face.

“Wait,” I whisper as I turn to catch Miss Billings before she leaves the room. “Does she want a story?”

“I hope so.”

With that, Miss Billings shuts the door. Why do I feel that final click of the door closing is like the clank of a dungeon cell being locked? Of course, there’s nothing to fear from a little girl, is there?

“You do want a story, don’t you?” I turn to the girl and force myself to smile.

She stares at the closed door and doesn’t answer me.

“I can tell a really good story,” I add as I go to the sofa and sit on the end opposite of where Breanna is curled up. I’m not sure she’s going to bolt for the door, but I don’t want to be in her way if she does. “A story about beautiful princesses and—”

“I hate princesses,” Breanna says still staring at the door.

“Oh, well, me, too,” I say. “But this one is okay
because she doesn’t know she’s going to be a princess.”

“Is she slow?” Breanna asks. She turns to actually look at me. “I know a boy on our street and my mother says he’s slow.”

Now isn’t the time for me to give Breanna a lesson on politically correct terms for specially challenged children. Unless I miss my guess she hates me less than she did when I walked in the room and I don’t want to damage that fragile beginning.

“No, Cinderella doesn’t know she’s a princess because she hasn’t met the prince yet.”

“I know.” Breanna gives a deep sigh. “She lost her shoe. Nothing nice ever happens to me when I lose a shoe.”

I move a little closer down the sofa. “Nothing nice ever happens to me when I lose something, either.”

“I lost my daddy,” Breanna says as she leans toward me a little.

“I’m so sorry that happened.” I move close enough to Breanna to put my arm around her.

To my surprise, Breanna snuggles into my arms.

“I tried to find him, but he wasn’t in his room,” she says. “My mom said he went to heaven, but I don’t know where that is.”

“My daddy’s in heaven, too,” I say.

Breanna sits enough forward so that she can turn and look at my face. “Do you know where that is?”

“No, sweetheart,” I say. “I don’t.”

I hold Breanna while her mother finishes making the arrangements with Mr. Z for her husband’s funeral. I wonder who held me when my mother made the ar
rangements for my father’s service. Then I wonder why God can’t tell people where heaven really is. Does it need to be such a big secret? If little girls only knew it was the left star to the right past the Little Dipper, it would make them feel better.

I’ve come to appreciate how comforting it is to know where things are. Maybe it’s because I’ve become more aware of good filing systems lately with all of the filing that I do. There’s nothing like a good filing system to let you know where everything is.

In any event, I do think God could do a better job of making things more orderly. It wouldn’t hurt Him to say Breanna’s father is number A-89 gazillion plus or minus ten in heaven and he is located forty degrees left of the moon. Does He have any idea how comforting that would be to the bereaved? I know it would be comforting to me.

I look up at the ceiling while I hold Breanna. Someday when I look up there, I would like to see my father’s face looking down at me. My real father’s face. Maybe, like Breanna, I still believe that if I only knew where to look I could find my dad.

I
t is almost lunchtime before I have a chance to ask Miss Billings if she knows of other locations for my cousin’s wedding. She is sitting at her desk and peeling some golden star stickers off of their backing for a special request made by a customer.

“It’s the older couple, the Berkstroms,” she says as I sit in the chair next to her desk and take one of the sticker sheets to help her. “They want these stickers on the programs for their son’s memorial. They said he’d always liked stickers like these when he was in school and that he’d been a good boy so he deserves them.”

I remembered seeing the forms for their son, Joey Berkstrom.

Joey was “slow” to use Breanna’s word. He’d lived with his parents all of his thirty-eight years, but he had enjoyed his days at a special school. From all I read about him, he might have been slow at some things, but he wasn’t slow when it came to loving other people. He loved with his arms wide-open. Mr. Z is
planning to use the double room for Joey’s final viewing because so many people are expected to come and say goodbye to him.

I like peeling the stars off their backing and pasting them on the programs Miss Billings has on her desk. “I wish I’d known him.”

“They say everybody loved him,” Miss Billings says.

Miss Billings and I stick stars on programs and are quiet for a while.

At moments like this at the Big M, I have to admit that I don’t understand death. I had never thought about it much before, which might be strange since my father died on me when I was little. But, to be honest, my mother left a bigger hole in my childhood. And, she wasn’t dead, she was just in Las Vegas. Not all absences are equal, I guess. In some ways death is easier than just having a parent decide to leave you the way my mother did me and Cassie’s mother did her.

Maybe it’s because, even though we don’t know much about death, we do know the basic rules and one of those rules is that dead is dead and people don’t have much choice about it once it happens. Living is so much more complicated. I feel as if my time at the Big M is helping me learn a little more about it all, though.

“Do you know if Mr. Z talked to his brother in Florida?” I ask. I’m not the only one learning things at the Big M. “Are they going to get together for Thanksgiving?”

Miss Billings nods. “Haven’t you noticed that he got himself a new shirt?”

I looked up from the programs. “I haven’t seen him today.”

“He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt under his suit jacket. I told him it’s Florida, not Hawaii, but to him they both seem like foreign countries. Fortunately, this is the Hollywood mortuary so people expect a little bit of the unusual. The Berkstroms seemed to take it in stride. But, then, they were used to Joey.”

“At least Mr. Z sounds like he’s happy,” I say. I can’t quite picture him wearing anything but a white shirt. “Is he still wearing his black tie?”

Miss Billings nods. “He looks like a man who’s torn between enjoying himself and tending to business.”

I grin just picturing him. Way to go, Mr. Z. Then I remember that I need some information.

“I’m wondering if you know of a backup place I could look at for my cousin’s wedding, just in case something happens and Mr. Z wants to keep his place open,” I say.

“What could happen?”

I shrug. “He and his brother could have another fight before he leaves.”

Miss Billings shook her head. “That won’t happen. His brother could say white is black and Mr. Z would just nod his head and agree. He doesn’t want another fight.”

“I hate to see Mr. Z close the Big M for my cousin’s wedding. Her mother is still looking for a location in Palm Springs and she might get it. Or, my cousin could get cold feet at the last minute and cancel the wedding.”

Miss Billings shrugs. “At this point, Mr. Z would leave it closed anyway. I don’t think anything will stop him from going to Florida to see his brother. Even
if there had been no mention of a wedding, Mr. Z would still close the Big M when he’s gone.”

“But if, for some reason, my cousin couldn’t use the Big M for her wedding, what would some other places be?”

Miss Billings thinks a minute. “Well, there’s Griffith Park. And there’s the big Chinese restaurant by Universal Studios. What’s their name? Spring Garden, that’s it. A friend of mine got married there. It was her fourth time getting married. Imagine that? But it was nice. They have an outdoor garden for the ceremony and people move inside for dinner. The walls have pictures of cherry blossoms on them and all the fixtures are brass. It looks wonderful when the lights are dim. Besides, they have great egg rolls.”

“That might work,” I say. What’s not to like about dim light and egg rolls?

“And they had fortune cookies made special for the wedding with the bride and groom’s name inside,” Miss Billings says.

“Elaine might like that.” I’m feeling pretty good about now. I know for a fact that Elaine likes fortune cookies. She always opens three or four until she finds a fortune that she likes—which I call cheating but which she calls taking charge of her life. I sometimes wonder if Elaine will end up like Aunt Ruth, always telling everyone what to do.

Miss Billings and I spend a few more minutes putting Joey’s programs in neat stacks before I leave to go outside so I can get good reception on my cell phone.

Before I call Information to get the number for the restaurant, I notice that I have a message waiting. I’d
turned my phone off this morning because Mr. Z doesn’t like cell phones ringing inside the Big M. I don’t always remember to turn it off, but I try to.

I think Mr. Z is right. It’s a mark of respect for the dead that we’re a little quieter around them. Not that they care since they’re not listening or anything. I’ve noticed, though, that people tend to whisper around the caskets and tiptoe into the viewing rooms. We tend to treat the dead as if they’re just taking a nap and I’ve wondered if maybe the quiet is for us. It doesn’t make the departed ones seem so far away if we think they’re just asleep.

The message on my cell phone is from Cassie and she’s inviting me to meet her and Jerry after work at the coffee shop. I hesitate for a minute because I’m wondering if Doug will be there at the same time. I’m not sure I’m ready to face him. But, even as I think about it, I decide that the last place Doug will be is at the coffee shop. He probably doesn’t even drink coffee now that he’s taken those religious vows.

Okay, so that sounds a little bitter on my part. I’m sure Doug does still drink coffee even though he’s probably not hanging out anywhere now that he’s got more serious things to think about. He’s probably on his knees someplace praying. A lot of fun that is. I can’t help but wish things were back the way they were before we went to that rally.

You know how sometimes you don’t figure something out until it’s too late? That happens to me. It took me a while to realize Doug and I could have become friends. Of course, we had all that weirdness at Elaine’s party so I can’t say it was obvious at first that we could do the friendship thing.

Once I found out he was raised by his aunts like me, though, I felt a lot of pieces come together. I could so totally understand why he was a jerk at Elaine’s party. I think it’s kind of like my toppling. As a kid, I was so afraid I wouldn’t please people—like my mother, no big surprise there—that I ended up doing stupid things. I figure Doug has the pleasing problem multiplied on him. The insecurity makes you do the opposite of what the normal, well-adjusted thing would be. He and I could have started a support group for people raised by their relatives.

In any event, Doug is probably off living his new life somewhere and doing just fine with his new circle of religious friends. I doubt very much that he’s hanging out at the coffee shop anymore.

I call Cassie and leave her a message that I will be at the coffee shop around five-thirty.

Then I call the restaurant and talk to the manager. He tells me that they have the garden free the Friday evening after Thanksgiving and that they can accommodate a party of two hundred people if we are willing to be seated in the outdoor pagoda and lawn area. They’d give us the empress dinner which has six entrées and all of the egg rolls and pot stickers we wanted for eight thousand dollars. That includes the setup of the chairs and use of the special wedding arch. If we wanted something simpler—aka cheaper—they could give us the egg rolls, pot stickers and various fruit in a buffet style in the lawn area for five thousand dollars. I told him I would call him back after I had talked to my aunt.

I took another minute and called Aunt Ruth. She
didn’t pick up during my message, which surprised me because she is always home in the afternoons and, well, Jerry had said she always picked up for me.

Anyway, I left a message that I had another option for Elaine’s wedding that sounded great. It was in a Chinese garden that had exotic flowers already so she wouldn’t need to worry about ordering more. Plus, the restaurant could provide the food so everything would be set. The price was reasonable and Elaine’s dress would look good in the night lights. That all didn’t seem like enough so I added that the beads on Elaine’s dress would glimmer in an outdoor setting.

I spend the rest of the afternoon looking happier than a person should look in a mortuary. But, what with Mr. Z in his Hawaiian shirt and Miss Billings walking around unaware she has a gold star stuck to her forehead, no one seems to notice my unnatural cheer.

After I check out of the Big M for the day, I take the Metro bus over to the coffee shop. Now, Los Angeles is the land of gourmet coffee shops with our Starbucks and our Peet’s and our Seattle’s Best. The coffee shop next to Cassie’s floral shop was there long before coffee went gourmet. It does its best to keep up, however, and offers lattes, cappuccinos and, when Asad is working the counter, an espresso stronger than any I’ve ever tasted anywhere. They also have all those bottles of coffee flavors. To tell you the truth, though, the best thing on their menu is a blended orange tea that has just a whiff of nutmeg.

I step inside the coffee shop. There are large windows on all three sides of the shop and light floods
the place all day long. There are a couple of women I don’t know sitting at a table in one corner and a man reading a newspaper along the back wall. There is classical music playing softly in the background and discarded newspapers sitting at several empty tables.

From behind the counter, Asad waves at me. “Julie, welcome. I delivered your notes to Doug when he came over at lunch.”

“Thanks,” I say although I’m hard-pressed to drum up any enthusiasm for Doug or my notes.

Asad looks at me as he pulls down a cup from the shelf above his head. Regular clients here all have their own mugs and mine is the white one with Seattle’s space needle traced in gold on the front of it.

“They are love notes, no?” Asad asks. “My English not so good, but I see the love word many times.”

I wince and then walk toward the counter. “It’s not that kind of love.”

Asad looks surprised. “But the notes say love, love, love—all over is love.”

Asad is happily married and thinks everyone else should be, as well.

“That’s love of God.”

“Ah,” Asad says as he fills my cup with hot water. “It’s good to love God, too. That is the blessed life.”

Asad puts the cup of hot water on the counter and pulls out the small wooden box that holds the tea bags. “Here’s your tea.”

I always pick the orange tea, but I like to flip through the rows of tea bags anyway just in case a new flavor has been added. Besides, I like the confusion of smells from the tea.

Asad reaches to the shelf behind him for a wrapped cinnamon biscotti and he puts it on the counter. I always order cinnamon biscotti with my orange tea. Someday I will sit and ponder whether that means I’m in a rut. Today, though, the predictability feels good.

I unwrap the tea bag and set it in my cup of hot water.

Then I pay and take my cup of tea and biscotti to a side table. I take off my suit jacket and hang it on the back of my chair. I wore a short-sleeved pink blouse under the black jacket I wear at the Big M and it feels good to be a little informal now. I didn’t realize until I lost my job at the bank that one of the pleasures of work was getting casual after work. If you were simply not working all day, you would miss that moment.

I look out the window behind me because I can see the side of the floral shop where Cassie works. I see Jerry’s pickup behind the store so I know they’re both there, especially because a huge ficus plant and several smaller ficus plants are loaded into the back of his pickup already.

I like to dunk the biscotti in the orange tea and so I do that. While I’m chewing, I see the florist shop door open and out come Jerry and Cassie. I see a few dirt marks on Cassie’s yellow sweatshirt so I’m guessing they just recently moved the ficus plants. The two of them are laughing about something and I see that Jerry still has his duffel bag in his hands. I don’t even get a chance to take another sip of tea before Jerry opens the door and they both walk in.

I take a good look because I think Jerry has grown taller than I remember.

“Are you wearing some kind of boots?” I say to
Jerry when he comes closer. I can see his jeans and they go all the way down to his shoes. The shoes don’t look as though they have a higher than normal heel.

“No, why, you got something you want stomped?” Jerry says in his usual cocky manner as he carries his duffel over and dumps it on the seat of one of the hard-back chairs that goes with my table. “Keep an eye on this, will you?”

I look at that duffel bag. “Isn’t that the bag you got for Christmas when you were ten?”

“I wanted a motorcycle,” he says as if it was somehow my fault.

“Hey, don’t look at me. I didn’t even get you anything that year.”

“Yes, you did. You got me a package of red cowboy handkerchiefs.”

“Aunt Inga got you those. She just put my name on the package.”

Cassie follows Jerry over and puts her purse on one of the chairs, as well. “You can still see the motorcycle insignia on that duffel bag if you look close. I’m sure everyone thought a bag would be safer than a motorcycle. Besides—” she looks up at Jerry “—you were only ten.”