The Big Shuffle (8 page)

Louise is alone, totally engrossed in reorganizing the closet.

“Louise! Where
is
everybody?” Panic edges my voice.

“Francie and Lillian's room,” she replies without looking up from her pile of sweaters.

I dash down the hall and open the door to the girls’ room. Uncle Lenny is seated on Lillian's small bed, leaning forward so that thick muscled arms balance on tree trunk legs, telling them a story. Three little faces stare up at him transfixed, while the twins lie sleeping in their car seats. Great, the man whose address is a bar somewhere in the Caribbean is not only baby-sitting the little kids but also the ten-week-old twins.

Catching my breath I manage to say, “Okay, we're back. Lunch in half an hour.”

Davy excitedly fills me in on what I've missed. “Hallie! There was a man and his dog shitwrecked on an island—”

“Thipwrecked,” Darlene corrects him. Sort of.

Davy doesn't miss a beat. “And when they found the man's clothes and the dog's bones they couldn't tell which eated the other!”

Davy reaches out and touches Uncle Lenny's beard. “You're God, aren't you?”

“Don't be stupid,” says Darlene. “He's Santa Claus.”

“You're stupid,” says Davy. “Because Santa is back at the North Pole. He only comes at Christmas. Everyone knows
that.”

Uncle Lenny shakes with laughter. Not unlike Santa Claus. Or perhaps God after hearing a really funny joke.

The doorbell rings. I've made it only to the landing when I hear the cheerful voices of the church ladies. They unpack casseroles and fruit salads and pineapple upside-down cakes.

I'm grateful they've come to the rescue once again. However, I'm also aware that their visits will become fewer and further between. They have their own families to get off to work and school in the mornings, and a list of community activities that require constant attention. Plus, they view Aunt Lala as one of them, probably due to her print dress, and believe that things are more or less under control.

If only the church ladies knew that a large portion of Aunt Lala's day is spent playing Memory with packets of herbal tea and artificial sweeteners. Honestly, if that's all she did, I wouldn't care. But every time our paths cross Aunt Lala asks, “What's going to happen? Whatever will you do?”

The churchwomen, on the other hand, instinctively understand that no matter what calamity is playing itself out, you keep repeating, “It's all going to be just fine! You'll see.” And
though I don't believe them for a second, it's really the only thing I'm interested in hearing right now.

As the churchwomen march past me and into the kitchen with their bright smiles and hair pulled neatly back, I wish I could be more like them, absorbing life's unexpected turns as easily as they adjust to changes in the weather.

O
N THE MORNING OF THE FUNERAL I WAKE UP JUST AFTER
four
A.M.
I'm ground down by exhaustion and sorrow and yet it's impossible to sleep.

Finally a sliver of pink dawn begins to creep over the horizon. Outside the window snow falls softly through the bare trees and onto the empty yards and rooftops.

I rise and drag myself through the paces of feeding and bathing the younger children while Eric heads off to the hospital to see if Mom will be able to attend the funeral.

At half past one I start herding the kids into the car. “Come on, it's time to leave for the church,” I announce in my best let's-sound-like-Mom voice. Eric has the station wagon and there's no way we can fit ten people and two babies into the van, so Aunt Lala, Uncle Lenny, Davy, and Darlene have to ride in a taxi.

As we're going out the door the phone rings and I rush to answer it.

“Mom's not going to be able to make it,” says Eric.

While backing out of the driveway it comes to my attention that Louise is missing. I rush back inside and almost rip the
slacks to my new black pantsuit while taking the steps two at a time.

Louise is lying across the bed and talking on the phone. Clothed all in black, she looks stunningly beautiful, with her swan-necked elegance and ballerina body.

“C'mon, Louise,” I say impatiently. “We have to go!”

Louise draws her slender shoulders together as if she's cold and gives me the one-minute sign with her finger. Meantime, one of the kids starts leaning on the horn in the driveway. They know they're not supposed to do that unless it's an emergency. Oh no! What if the exhaust pipe is blocked with ice and they're all suffocating to death?

“Louise,
now
!”

She gives me a nasty look, whispers something into the receiver, and tosses the phone onto the bed. I grab her arm and start pulling her toward the door.

“It was Brandt!” she says, as if this explains everything.

“What can the two of you possibly have to talk about for six hours straight every single day?” Whenever I ask Louise to help, she's on the phone with Brandt, who is studying at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

“Just lunar phases, solar system debris, and the fate of our sun, for your information,” she replies haughtily.

“You're kidding me, right?” I ask as we hurry out the front door. It's an obscure collection of problems to be brooding about right before our father's funeral.

“The sun will end up a compact white dwarf held in place by strange quantum-mechanical forces after expelling its outer layers to form a bubble of flowing gas,” continues Louise.

“And I'll be roasting hot dogs for eight kids over the flames,” I say. “Get in the car!”

Finally we're under way. The snowstorm has passed and the
carpet of white is now broken by the tracks of newspaper carriers, mailpersons, and children building forts and snowmen. The church parking lot overflows with cars. Men in dark overcoats and plaid scarves hold up women wearing black-netted pillbox hats and long wool coats so that they don't slip on the ice while making their way to the main entrance.

Bernard and Gil are waiting for us in the vestibule. Taking Reggie out of my arms, Bernard asks, “How did the younger children take the news?”

“They think Uncle Lenny is God and had to take Dad away and aren't interested in any other version of the story at this particular time.”

“Très intéressant,”
says Bernard.

Strong arms grab me from behind and what feels like the start of a takedown turns out to be my athletic friend Jane. “Oh Hallie, this is
so
terrible! I tried to get here sooner, but the driving was horrible.”

“Mom's in
Dalewood,”
I whisper.

My friend Gwen's parents rush forward. Mrs. Thompson is easily recognizable by the silk leopard print scarf that adorns her black wool dress. Gwen's mother exudes grief the way other people give off the scent of perfume. She attempts to say something but immediately begins sobbing and then practically falls forward, wrapping her arms around me and sinking that Mount Rushmore bosom directly into my rib cage as a violent burst of Chanel No. 5 further stifles my breathing. If I was wearing high heels and not flats, we'd both be on the floor with Gwen's mom on top.

Fortunately Mr. Thompson rescues the situation by taking his wife's arm and gently drawing her to his side. Turning to me, he says, “We're so sorry that Gwen couldn't make it from California for the funeral. She's been trying to call you, but it's impossible
to get through.” What is unspoken here is that my dad was the only person in Cosgrove County who would not pay for call waiting. Or caller ID. Or cable TV.

It's impossible for me to take a single step without someone known or unknown speaking very close to my face. One woman describes Dad as being “taken from us,” as if he's been kidnapped by aliens.

Bernard steers me to a place in the front row where he's organized the children. There's a clear view of the highly polished black casket with gold handles. It's difficult to comprehend that Dad is inside that … that
box
, while we're over here lining the pew.

Aunt Lala and Uncle Lenny are each holding one of the twins, both of whom are sound asleep. Teddy sits somberly in the pew while Davy, Darlene, and Francie push and poke one another. Only tiny Lillian sits quietly in her little navy dress and stockings, with her legs dangling over the edge of the pew, looking wide-eyed at the enormous stained-glass window of the angel whispering to Mary. Lillian looks like a “mini-me,” with the same long strawberry-blond hair, pink skin, and hazel eyes. The only other difference is that her freckles are just emerging, whereas mine have begun to fade.

Eric hurries up the aisle as the minister approaches the podium. There's a commotion next to me that results in Davy, Darlene, and Francie all elbowing one another.

“Stop messing around
this instant!”
Eric hisses in a deep stage whisper.

The children immediately obey him, sitting meekly and staring down at their laps. This is in striking contrast to the way they basically ignore my directives, no matter how much I yell and threaten them.

Turning my head, I scan the back of the sanctuary for Craig.

He said there was a flight from Minneapolis this morning that had plenty of room. Surely he would know to look for us up front. The church is almost filled to capacity, but pale-faced mourners continue to spill through the doors. Ushers in dark gray suits scurry up and down the aisles trying to find seats for those gathered at the back. Some of the men drift about like museum goers, uncertain of how long to stay in a certain place or exactly how to comment upon the events, taking their cues from others. Yet the women move efficiently, quickly taking in who is here, where they're seated, and probably even what they're wearing.

Suddenly I wish that I'd worn the long black gloves Bernard brought over, which I decided were just a bit too Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany's.
My hands are freezing and my fingers practically numb. Whether it's from the cold or my nerves I don't know. It's no longer possible to feel where I end and the world begins.

N
ANCY GORDON, THE INTERIM MINISTER, RISES FROM HER HIGH
backed chair and approaches the dais. The crowd settles, with just a few heavy bronchial coughs echoing throughout the sanctuary.

“We're gathered here today in the spirit of Christ to celebrate the life of Robert Palmer,” she announces, as if some of us may have put on our black clothes and rolled up at the wrong church. No one rises to leave and so she continues, “And to offer worship, praise, and thanksgiving to God for the gift of life, which has now been returned to God, the author of life and the hope of the just.”

In no time at all scripture is swirling through the air the same way that hunks of wet snow were flying around yesterday. “God loves you, abides with you, and will not forsake you in these moments and in the days of readjustment and reorientation that lie ahead of you,” she informs us. “This is surely the message of the Jesus.”

Sometimes I can hear what's being said and other times I can't. A roar like the bottom of a waterfall is inside my head, and I just barely manage to make it from one heartbeat to the next.

At the other end of the pew I hear sniffing and the rustling of tissues and look down to see Louise with tears streaming down her face. This has the effect of making Darlene cry. Aunt Lala has raccoon eyes from wiping at her mascara, while little red rivers of burst capillaries stand out on her nose and cheeks in the places where she's swabbed off her foundation makeup.

A man who worked with Dad talks about what a devoted family man and wonderful coworker my father was. Certainly no one is going to jump up and dispute that.

Eric strides up to the podium and reads Psalm 46. His voice comes across clear and strong, especially during the part about “therefore we will not fear, though the Earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea.” I hear sniffles and sobs reverberating throughout the sanctuary. Although Eric is as big and powerful as Dad, he doesn't bear a strong resemblance to our father. But Eric
sounds
exactly like Dad.

I was asked to speak but said no. Basically everyone here is aware that I left home at fifteen, play cards, and then there was all that nonsense about the missing money. Besides, what would I say? I doubt that a Bible verse from an underage gambler would go down real well today.

Reverend Gordon hugs Eric solidly before he returns to our pew. Then she asks the assembled mourners, “Where could we find stronger words of comfort? And not with just any God, mind you, but with the one true God, the creating, redeeming, and loving God …”

Off to the side I catch a glimpse of Jane's mother nodding her head up and down in vigorous agreement. I've never really thought much about funerals, having been to only one in my life, at the age of six, when Mom's father died. Now I begin to wonder if these rituals are supposed to make a mourner feel better or worse? I mean, maybe they're intended to land a person
at rock bottom so after you leave it's possible to start climbing back up again. I don't know. All that's clear right now is that the kids are getting itchy in these fancy clothes, they're starting to fidget, and it seems as if the service might actually overlap with the Second Coming.

“The Book of John speaks of our heavenly Father's house,” continues Reverend Gordon, her voice rising in that ministerial way that indicates we're finally coming in for a landing.

She closes her eyes tight and raises her hands, palms upward. “In our Father's house there are many rooms. Right now I imagine Robert Palmer is settling into his new home. We feel sorry for ourselves, but we must not feel sorry for him.”

I know it's terrible, but I can't help think that no one in the Palmer family is going to feel especially sorry for anyone getting his own room in a nice big house.

“Robert Palmer would not want our sympathy, because he is happy in the presence of Jesus. And that same mighty power is among us today in the person of the Holy Spirit, to bring his love and comfort to us all.”

We rise for “There Is a Land of Pure Delight” and a rock-solid soprano directly behind me undertakes the singing for our entire section. She comes across particularly loud and clear on the subject of “removing these gloomy doubts that rise,” as if she has never experienced this personally but is happy to explicate the matter for the benefit of the rest of us.