It Isn't Cheating if He's Dead (12 page)

Damn it. Ironing after all.

Once dressed, she slipped on her highest
heels, the lavender patent-leather ones with the peep toe that revealed her
lacquered nails, an indulgence she rarely bothered with. She poked pearl studs
through her pierced ears, stood in the front entry, and analyzed her reflection
in the mirrored closet doors.

“Wow. Not bad, old girl.” Normally her
curves screamed ‘fat girl’ at her, but today she saw beauty looking back. A
woman who’d seen her share of the crap in the world. Who’d come out, stronger
and happier, on the other side. How strange, to realize that on this day. She
still didn’t have many answers. Still didn’t know why Gerald made the choices
he did. But they were his choices. Not hers. Maybe after today she could let
some of it go. Get on with her life. A life without Gerald. And blessedly,
without Althea either.

She pulled her cigarettes from her purse
and tapped on the pack. Nothing. She shook it. Empty. She tossed the pack in
the garbage can. A day without vices. No smokes. No wine. And no Finn.

Her belongings packed, she checked out of
the hotel and left her bags with the concierge. There’d be enough time after
the service and obligatory showing for tea and finger sandwiches afterward to
stop back for them on her way to the airport. But not enough time to change.
Wait until Finn got a load of this outfit.

She stepped out onto West Georgia Street
into a sparkling morning. The ever-present odour of salt water and fish wafted
from Vancouver Harbour a few blocks away. She’d always hated that smell.

Twelve-thirty. What a ridiculous time for a
funeral. But knowing Althea, it was her way to guarantee as many people as
possible would come back after the interment. Bring ‘em in hungry with the
promise of food. Then the grieving mother would soak up all the sympathy she
could.

Even the location was so wrong. A church.
Gerald hadn’t stepped inside a church since he was ten. He'd already finished
high school and was on his way to university before he hit fifteen. He was
brilliant, a genius. The idea of a higher power simply amused him. No matter
how much his mother tried to convince him otherwise, he wouldn’t attend. He scoffed
at her beliefs, but he never told Althea that. Jem was glad her parents didn’t
have religion. Made being an atheist so much easier.

She could have argued with Althea, about
the church, about the burial. But what was the point? Jem wouldn’t have been
heard. And she no longer gave a shit. If Gerald wanted to roll over in his
grave, so be it. It’s his own damn fault he’ll be in one to begin with. He
should have discussed his wishes with his mother, not with her. He knew Althea
would never listen, never give in. But maybe he didn’t think Althea would live
long enough to see his funeral. Maybe by the time he left, all that didn’t
matter anymore. Maybe he just wanted to be gone.

Two blocks up and one right turn later she
stood in front of the cathedral. Belief or no belief, Jem couldn’t help but
admire the old church, its architecture and sandstone exterior, the Gothic arch
stained-glass windows. She mounted the stairs, hesitating on each step. She
stopped halfway to take it all in.

The Heritage Horns at Canada Place belted
out the first four notes of O Canada. She glanced at her watch. Noon on the
dot. Seven-and-a-half hours until she’d be thousands of feet in the air,
leaving all of this behind her. For good. Less than nine until Finn would meet
her at the airport and gather her in his arms. Another hour after that and she
would be pushed to the brink of ecstasy over and over again until plunging into
the sexual abyss with him. Had sex ever been this good before?

The sign above the church door caught her
attention. Alleluia indeed.

She stepped inside the vestibule behind a
dozen others waiting to be shown a seat. A dozen perfumes clashed and fought to
be noticed amid the overpowering aroma of lemon furniture polish and aged dust.

A guest book sat to the right of the
doorway to the main hall of the church. She signed it and added ‘You will be
with me forever.’ She ran one finger down the list of names already waiting
inside. Dean was there with his wife. She would seek them out, sit in friendly
territory.

An usher took her by the elbow and led her
into the cavernous space. She was overcome by the beauty of the wood and the
fixtures and the height and breadth of the room. Her gaze focused upward until
a polite tug on her elbow stopped her short in the aisle. She bumped into a man
in front of her.

“My apologies,” she murmured.

“Jem, come with me.” Marjorie took over for
the usher and tucked an arm inside of hers, clasping hands. “As you might
expect, Althea’s in fine form this morning. I know your concerns, I understand
your right to know answers. But maybe today you could let it go and just be
here for her, okay?”

“Don’t worry. I have no desire for a scene
in the middle of Gerald’s funeral. I’ll go sit with Dean.” She scanned the
heads in the pews.

“Don’t be silly. You belong up front with
the family.” Marjorie put an arm around her waist and guided her forward. “I
mean really,” she leaned her head next to Jem’s, “you were more family than
most of us. You knew him best.”

And with that, Jem burst into tears. Marjorie
pulled a Kleenex from the pocket of her sweater and handed it to her then slid
into the front pew. Jem followed, Marjorie and her family creating a blockade
between Jem and Althea. The woman didn’t even glance up at her, no reassuring
smile, not even a nod. But what did she expect? That on the day of his funeral
Althea would come around and see that Jem loved him, after all these years of
assuming the worst?

Maybe Althea was right about her. The man
she’d loved, searched for, waited for, lost —he’d been dead only a few weeks and
her head was already filled with thoughts of another. Thoughts she couldn’t
control, not even in Gerald’s mother’s home. Not even on the threshold of an inappropriate
church funeral meant to honour the memory of the brilliant scientist, atheist,
corduroy-loving man she held out hope would come home to her.

She should change her name to Jezebel.

Gerald lay a few feet from her. His coffin,
a white brocade cloth with gold bands forming a cross lain over it, rested
front and centre for all to see. He was right there. In the room. Close enough
to touch. For the first time in years.

She squeezed her eyes shut and conjured his
face but details refused to appear. Wisps of him came to mind. Small pieces of
memory. A lock of hair, a flash of ebony eye. Tears streamed down her cheeks. He’d
lost his mind, but she’d lost his whole body, and now he was starting to fade
altogether.

She dabbed at her eyes with the tissue and
stared up at the stained glass. Five sections, each Gothic arch larger than the
last, working from the outsides in. The centre arch, a good twenty feet tall,
towered over the faithful in the pews. And one of the unfaithful.

The portrayals were detailed with beautiful
colours, vibrant and glowing, backlit by the bright sun that chose to bathe
this rainy city in light on this day, of all days. The only figure she
recognized was Jesus. What was that he stood on, an ice floe? No, a cloud. Of
course. An ice floe would make more sense though, help to explain the whole
walking on water thing.

In the centre pane, he spread his arms, his
haloed head proof that this scene took place after the resurrection. He
addressed the huddled masses below him. It looked more like cowering than
huddling. Bowing at the feet of someone his disciples aspired to be. Someone
they never could be. Someone they loved without reservation. Someone they were
afraid of losing again.

The room filled with the sound of shuffling
feet and clearing throats and nervous coughs. Her watch announced it was twelve-oh-five.
Time to get this show on the road.

As if summoned, the minister entered from a
side door and stood next to Gerald’s coffin. Women lawyers were a sin against
nature, but Althea attended a church with a female minister. Did that make her
a hypocrite, or maybe a little enlightened? Perhaps Jem was the only woman
mother Wolfe had total disdain for.

The minister placed her hand on the cloth
and looked out at the congregation.

“We meet in the name of Jesus Christ, who
died and was raised to the glory of God the Father. Grace and mercy be with
you.” The minister cleared her throat. “We have come here today to remember
before God our Brother Gerald. To give thanks for his life. To commend him to
God our merciful redeemer and judge. To commit his body to be buried, and to
comfort one another in our grief.”

Over the next hour the congregation was
asked to rise, to sing, to pray, to sit. Jem rose and sat, but singing and
praying were out of the question. She stood, but never bowed her head, never
uttered the words of a God she did not believe in. A God that didn’t exist at
all. Whose words were those, anyway? Some ancient storyteller perhaps. The
original novelist.

When the minister began the eulogy, Jem
snapped out of her contemptuous thoughts and paid attention. This woman that Gerald
had never met was telling the story of him. The story his mother wanted told.
Why wouldn’t Althea allow her to speak? To share her Gerald with this crowd of
mostly strangers and acquaintances. They were regaled with tales of Gerald the
perfect son, Gerald the precocious genius, Gerald the brilliant scientist.
Predictions that, had he lived, he would have cured all cancers for good.

Where was the Gerald who alphabetized the
soup? How about the Gerald who stripped to hip hop music and fucked her on the
couch? The Gerald who listened to the others and spoke to them through the
pearl in her ring. The Gerald who lost his freaking mind. Where was he? He'd
been swept under the communion carpet, never to be spoken of again. If sticking
your head in the sand were a sin, Althea would rot in hell.

The minister stood by the coffin. “Please,
I welcome you to join me and gather around Brother Gerald.”

No one moved. Jem stole a look at Althea,
then stood and smoothed the front of her skirt. Murmurs filled the hall. She
joined the minister at Gerald’s side and placed a hand on the coffin. With one
touch of her living flesh to the container that held his cold body, grief
overcame her and she wept.

The shuffling of many feet was followed by
several people gathering around the coffin. Marjorie was on one side of her. Dean
slid next to the other, put his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek.
Althea remained seated, her head in her hands, her shoulders quaking.

“Let us commend Gerald to the mercy of God,
our maker and redeemer. Please bow your heads in silence.”

Jem bowed her head, but not in prayer. In
silence for Gerald. Something he sought for so long. Silence in his head.

“And now to he who is able to keep us from
falling, and lift us from the dark valley of despair to the bright mountain of
hope, from the midnight of desperation to the daybreak of joy.”

From despair to hope. Desperation to joy.
If only that were possible, for Gerald’s sake.

“To him be power and authority, forever and
ever.”

“Amen.”

 The chorus of voices around her, loud and
sudden, shook her to the core like a twenty-one gun salute.

Everyone returned to the pews and took their
seats. The minister invited the pall-bearers to flank the casket. Dean,
Marjorie’s two sons, and three men Jem had never met grasped the brass handles
and rolled Gerald up the aisle. Jem was the first one to exit behind him. She walked
up the aisle alone. The only aisle she would ever walk with Gerald. Like a
morbid reverse wedding.

Row by row the pews emptied and mourners
fell in behind her, all hushed murmurs and muffled sobs. Outside the church,
the pallbearers hoisted the casket and carried it down the many steps. Jem
stood on the sidewalk, unable to look away from the coffin. When they slid it
into the open maw at the rear of the hearse, her heart sank. She'd known he was
dead. That he wasn’t coming home. Had even started to move on. But the vision
of that vehicle swallowing him whole made it final. Made it stick. Made him
gone forever.

The hearse door slammed shut. She flinched,
closed her eyes, and hung her head.

“Jem?” Marjorie touched her arm. “We’ve got
the limo. You come with us.”

“No. I can’t. I can’t watch her stuff him
into a hole in the cold ground. None of this is what he would have wanted.”

“I understand.” Marjorie hugged her,
pinning her arms to her sides. “Althea won’t, but that’s not important now,”
she whispered. “You have to do what is right for you.” She stood back and
gripped both Jem’s arms. “Will you wait here? Have lunch and tea?”

“Of course.”

Marjorie climbed into the limo and it
pulled away from the curb, following behind the hearse. A line of cars fell
into its wake, idling down Burrard Street and heading to Mountain View
Cemetery. Jem watched the procession until the last carful of mourners turned
right on Dunsmuir.

She slipped off her shoes, slid her fingers
through the peep toes, and walked in the opposite direction, stilettos bouncing
off her thigh. Her mind was bombarded with flashes of the past nine years. No,
not the full nine. Only the five years before he disappeared.