The Art of Crash Landing (23 page)

W
hen my alarm went off that Friday morning—the morning I was to help my mother photograph the funeral service—I hit the snooze button and spent a few minutes listening to raindrops hit the window and wishing to God I'd had less to drink the night before. I weighed my options: going wet and hungover to help my mother, versus listening to her give me shit for-fucking-ever about blowing off the job. It was a close call, but keeping the peace with my mother won.

As I got dressed, I weighed my next two options: arriving without coffee but on time, versus arriving with coffee but having to listen to my mother give me shit for-fucking-ever about being a little late. Coffee won that round.

By the time I got in my car—or rather, my mother's car—it had almost stopped raining. I hit one green light and then another. When I pulled into Dunkin Donuts, there were only two people in front of me, and they both moved through quickly, which never happens when I'm in a hurry. It was as if the universe was conspiring to help me both be on time and get caffeinated.
Karma isn't
always a bitch
, I remember thinking, right before I saw the blue flashing lights in my mirror. Apparently, even good karma can't make up for running a stop sign next to a doughnut shop.

I watched in the side mirror as the policeman levered himself up out of his cruiser and ambled toward me. When he leaned over and peered in my car, I could see the powdered sugar on the front of his uniform shirt. I could also see my face reflected in his mirrored sunglasses. I looked pissed.

“License and proof of insurance.”

I popped the glove box, digging through all the crap my mother had stashed inside. It wasn't until I had her insurance verification card in my hand that I knew what I was about to do.

I handed him the paper, and then made a little show of digging around in my purse before I said, “Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry. I left my wallet in another purse. I can give you my driver's license number. And my social . . .”

“You shouldn't be driving without a license.”

“I know. I'm soooo sorry. It's just that my mom's got cancer, and between taking care of her and working I've been so tired . . .” My hangover made it easy to act exhausted and ill.

He sighed and then turned and walked to his car, leaned in through the window and then came back carrying a pen and his clipboard-box. I gave him my mother's name, license number, and social security number without missing a beat. Helping her fill out all those insurance forms had some benefits.

It worked like a charm. The cop sat in his cruiser for a few minutes and then came back with a ticket, which I signed with my mother's name. He told me to drive safely, and I nodded and smiled, then stuffed the ticket into my mother's glove box. I'd get that paid before she found out about it, I decided. Surely I would. Probably.

I arrived at the funeral home half an hour after the service
was scheduled to begin. My only parking options were either up at a covered entrance where I'd be blocking the hearse, or at the far end of the parking lot. Seeing as how I was late and had another trip to make with equipment, I parked in the covered drive, with a vague plan to move the car before the service ended.

Just inside the door was a sign with the names and locations of the funerals in progress. The McLeod funeral, which was the one I was looking for, was being held in the Serenity Suite. I remember thinking that was funny. The
Serenity Suite
? As opposed to what? The
Agitation Suite
? I hurried along the carpeted hallway and eased open the door labeled
Serenity
and stuck my head inside. A man who looked a little like Jeff Bridges, his hair slicked back in a ponytail was speaking from the podium; next to him was an open casket in which rested Mr. McLeod, I presumed. My mother was standing along the left side of the room, her camera poised. She saw me in the doorway and welcomed me with a frown. Several guests noticed her scowl and twisted in their seats to find its cause. Me.

I hurried out to the car and grabbed the rest of her gear. When it was all piled in the hall, I slipped back inside the room. My mother's camera bag was on a seat in the last row of folding chairs. I moved it under the chair and sat down.

I concentrated on being invisible. My mother moved around silently, first on one side and then the other taking photos of Mr. McLeod in his casket, and the minister—I'm assuming he was a minister, even if he did have a ponytail—at the podium. The family was up front, so I couldn't really get an idea of what they looked like, but glancing around the room I saw a lot of long stringy gray hair, and some tall eighties bangs. I counted three mullets. I remember thinking I had entered some tragic bad-hair time warp, but I also remember feeling relief. I looked like shit that morning, but I was dressed more appropriately than most of
those people. My black slacks might be getting shiny in the seat, but they weren't skintight leather or acid-washed denim.

I sat quietly in hangover misery, sipping my coffee and counting the heartbeats thumping in my head, ignoring whatever The Dude of God was saying up front. I noticed that I needed to take my shoes to the shop and get new heels. I noticed that the woman sitting in front of me was wearing underwear a good three inches too tall for her low-rise jeans. I noticed that the arm of the man sitting next to me was covered in a thick pelt of wiry gray hair with a bald strip on his wrist where the stretch-band of his Timex sat. How many years had it taken for that watch to pull all that hair out, one strand at a time? I focused on the jump of the second hand of his watch. I noticed that my coffee was half gone, and I didn't feel even one bit better.

When the minister finished talking, he made a little motion, and a woman in the front came up to the podium. She was heavyset, in her fifties, and had black hair with a few short spikes on top, the rest falling to her shoulders. She wore a red blazer that looked about twenty pounds too small, a tight miniskirt, and converse high-tops. There was a shuffling sound throughout the room. I wasn't the only one who sat up straighter as this super-size Joan Jett settled in behind the microphone.

She spoke in a pack-a-day growl introducing herself as Candy and then thanking us for coming to say good-bye to Bowser. I really think she said his name was
Bowser
. She started talking about meeting him at a Moody Blues concert and then drifted off into some riff about all the concerts they'd attended. As she droned on about show after show, I imagined that I could almost smell the marijuana—although it might have actually been coming from hairy-arms sitting next to me. Candy kept talking about this and that, Rolling Stones, Queen, Harley Davidsons, Jack Daniel's, lung cancer . . . blah blah blah.

Just when I thought I might have to go outside and have a cigarette—references to lung cancer always gave me the urge—the woman broke down in big showy sobs and left the podium. Some crackling from the speakers in the ceiling hinted that music would now begin.
Finally, the closing hymn
, I remember thinking. And I lifted my cup of coffee to my lips, just as the sound system played a distinctive guitar and drum riff.

The music was loud, but not loud enough to cover my bark of laughter. The man next to me shouted “Hey!” when I spewed coffee on his arm, and low-rise, sitting in front of me, jumped up when she felt moisture hit the exposed small of her back.

Still coughing and snorting, I hurried to the bathroom. I spent as long as I could blotting the coffee from my roommate's white button down, but eventually I emerged, finding the Serenity Suite doors open and Bowser's friends milling in the hallway. I weaved my way through them and back into the room to join my mother. She was taking photos of the family posed around the casket. I carried over the tripod and the lights, then followed her curt instructions as she took various groupings with and without the deceased guest of honor.

When things finally wound down, I waited quietly for my mother to finish packing up her camera, and then I picked up the tripod and lights and followed her. The lobby was tiled and had an aggressive fountain right in the center, so everyone had to raise their voices to be heard over the terrible acoustics. Everyone except my mother, that is, because she wasn't speaking to me.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

She frowned, saying nothing.

“I'm sorry I was late.”

More frowning.

“I'm sorry I coughed.”

The frowning continued, but now with narrowed eyes.

“Okay, laughed,” I admitted. “It was wrong, I know it was, and I'm really,
really
sorry.”

Her expression eased a little, and I couldn't resist adding, “But, come on . . . who plays ‘Another One Bites the Dust' at a funeral?”

She glared at me, but to this day I would swear that I saw just the slightest twitch at the corner of her mouth. When she finally spoke, however, all she said was, “Your shirt is ruined.”

I shrugged. “It's not my shirt.”

She gave me a look that told me I had once again confirmed her low expectations.

“The oncologist's office called,” she said. “They have a cancellation this afternoon.”

“I have to work tonight . . .”

“The appointment is at one thirty. Let's go get lunch and then go hear about my test results. We'll be finished in plenty of time for you to get to work.”

I put on an apologetic expression. “I can't do it. There's a mandatory meeting at work this afternoon.” I told her this because it sounded better than the truth, which was that I had a voluntary lunch date with Eddy the new bartender. The date was in his apartment, and I figured that if things went well, Eddy and I would probably both be late for work.

“But—”

“Just keep your appointment for Monday.”

“I'd rather go today.”

“I'm off work Monday. If you want me to go, it will need to be then.”

While my mother and I were talking, I'd been watching a man in a gray suit and a name tag work his way methodically
through the crowd, saying a few words and then moving on. I was pretty sure I knew who he was looking for.

“I already took the appointment for today,” my mother said, “but I do want you there.”

“Then I guess you'll have to untake it.” I picked up the tripod and tucked it under one arm.

“But—”

She was interrupted by the gray-suited man who'd finally reached us. “Excuse me,” he said.

I looked at his slick dark hair, tidy mustache, and pale skin and wondered if he'd resembled a member of the Addams family before he worked at a funeral home, or if the job had caused it somehow.

“Do either of you drive a red Malibu?”

My mother and I both said “yes,” which seemed to confuse him, but only for a second. “You must move your car, immediately,” he said.

My mother made one of those exasperated sounds that mothers do so well, and then said, “Where did you park?”

Before I could answer, the man said, “She parked in the porte cochere!” His horrified tone of voice making it sound as if I'd done a naked interpretive dance in his fancy French covered parking rather than just leaving a car sitting there.

“It was raining,” I explained.

“You know,” my mother said to me, “you still need to get all that crap out of the back of your jeep.”

“Excuse me! You really
must
move your car right now.”

My mother continued to talk to me, ignoring the man. “I'm parked on the north side of the building. Pull the Malibu around and we can swap out everything in the cars while we finish our conversation—”

“Ladies,
please
!” The man was bouncing on his tiptoes with impatience.

When I think back on that day, I can't help but dwell on how easy it would have been to just do what my mother asked. To drive the Malibu around to where she'd parked my jeep. We could have traded out all the crap in our cars. Given a few more minutes to work on me, she probably would have convinced me to postpone my date with Eddy, and that would have been just fine. A Saturday nooner is every bit as much fun as a Friday one. But I was tired and hungover and still cranky about the whole funeral-in-the-rain thing. I'd had enough of my mother for one day.

“I don't have time,” I told her.

“I simply must insist!” the man shouted, his black mustache twitching.

“Settle down, Gomez,” I said, then I turned to my mother. “I'll come over tomorrow. We'll clean out the cars then.”

“But—”

The man grabbed my elbow and began tugging me in the direction of the door. I went along without a struggle since he was escorting me to my car, which was where I wanted to go anyway.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” I called back to my mother.

I was at the door when I heard her say, “Mattie!”

I slowed and turned. “What?”

She said something in reply, but with the fountain noise and the hum of conversation I couldn't hear it.

“What?” I called back again. Gomez was still tugging and the crowd was pushing us farther apart. I had to struggle to keep my mother in sight.

“Be careful,” she shouted. I heard “remember,” and then something else I almost made out, but by that point I was out the
door and could only hear bits and pieces of her parting words. The last word was “upholstery.”

I looked down at the tripod in my arms and saw that it was missing the rubber tip on one leg. I was annoyed, of course I was. Her precious fucking Malibu with its stupid tuck-and-roll upholstery. I considered shouldering my way back in there to tell her she could just drive her own damn car if she loved it so much, but the crowd was thick and the hearse was now surrounded by several men in suits, all glaring at me. So instead I just yelled “Everything will be fine” in my mother's direction as I opened the car door and tossed in the tripod.