The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter (52 page)

“I've kept you up!”

“It's okay. I was already awake after the phone rang.”

“I've done all the talking!”

“It was a nice change of pace.”

“The long-distance! I'll have to pay my dad back, in the morning I'll tell him—”

“Eliot, it's really the least of your worries,” and with that a cry spontaneously escapes him, then expires just as quickly.

“Andi. Can you come here?”

There is a silence, and instantly he feels ridiculous. They are not together anymore, and what? Does he expect her to miss work Monday? So everyone will know about their former relationship? Though he imagines they'd figured it out by now anyway, given all the weird energy between them. She wouldn't go to Gary with him when they were together, and now with it all over he presumes she would be willing to become sucked into the middle of it all, his
life?
And what must she think, him asking her to drop everything and come to Maryland after he's been with Didi all this time?

“Andi, I'm sorry, that just popped out. But I really appreciate your listening.” Still no answer. “Andi?”

He hears the receiver jiggle. “Okay, go ahead.”

“What?”

“Oh sorry, Eliot, I had to put the phone down. With all the books and notepads strewn around here, you wouldn't think it would have taken me that long to find a pen and paper. Alright, give me the driving directions.”

 

16

“These are some of the samples we have in right now.” Stan Waverly the funeral director, a short, stocky fifty-something white man with white hair and much pink in his smooth, fair complexion, sits at his desk, holding up a three-ring binder. A picture album, except these pages are neatly filled with photographs of caskets. Dwight and Eliot, sitting next to each other opposite Stan, stare at the images, both brothers looking like they've been through the war, confusion and exhaustion, but Stan is used to that appearance in his clients. Despite Eliot's phone call into the wee hours, the time seemed to have dragged until this 10 a.m. meeting, having woken every half-hour from vivid dreams. Several vases of artificial flowers adorn the room, one placed on a tall chest made of cherry wood, as is Stan's tidy desk, both pieces unmarred. A cup on the desk is filled with pens (
w
averly
f
uneral
h
ome
with the address and phone number), a standing American flag is situated in a corner, and on the wall is a framed diploma authorizing Stan as a Mortuary Technician. Undertaker. Until now, Eliot had not thought about how literal the word is: he takes them under.

To spare their father, Dwight and Eliot have taken on as many tasks as possible: choosing the coffin; writing the tribute to their mother, assigned by Dwight to Eliot the lawyer before he arrived; the organization of the cars for the funeral procession and other logistics (Dwight); arranging the pallbearers (Dwight again). Eliot had remarked that the elder seemed to have unfairly burdened himself with the bulk of the work, but Dwight assured him he had not taken on more than he could handle, and Eliot left it at that.

“Most people choose steel. Very sturdy and economical. It may seem cold, but it comes in a variety of colors. White, pink, tan. And of course silver, gold. I assume an open casket for the viewing, closed for the funeral?”

The brothers stare at him blank.

“That's the general custom. See here, the upper half of the casket is open so that visitors can see her face. The bottom half is always closed so you needn't bring shoes.”

Again the brothers gape in utter confusion.

“You will have to pick out an outfit for her to wear of course.”

Eliot and Dwight look at each other.

“I can do that,” says Dwight. “Or. I can pick out something, and then I'll check with you.” Eliot nods.

“Alright, so you'll notice the design on the inside upper half. This one with the praying hands is very popular, as is this. With the roses, ‘Mother'?” Dwight looks to the lower part of the page. “Now
that
we call ‘Going Home,' very simple, very tasteful.” Stan Waverly allows a few moments of silence while the brothers stare at pictures, turn pages. “These,” he begins again quietly, “are in the range I imagine you're looking at. But I should also—” He turns several leaves to the wooden models. Eliot notices that the prices have now doubled. “These oak and mahogany pieces are quite elegant. I'm especially partial to the ebony.” Four times as much as the steel. “I've already reserved one for myself.” Stan softly chuckles.

The brothers stare for a few moments. “My mother's life insurance benefit for the whole funeral is a thousand dollars,” Eliot says finally.

“Certainly,” says Stan, and moves to turn back to the budget section.

“Wa-wait! Let's jus look at a few a these,” says Dwight, his hand holding the page with the ebony model. Eliot's face slowly turns to his brother. Dwight doesn't notice.

“Well the ebony is certainly very striking.” Stan smiles broadly, then glances at Eliot and tempers his expression. “Now, some families prefer the cherry, more affordable than the ebony. A little color. Softens things.” The cherry is half the cost of the ebony but still twice as much as the steel.

Dwight leans forward, turning the sheets, studying, frowning. At last he sits back in his chair. “Well! I say we go with the ebony.” As if injected by a boost of some stimulant, he suddenly seems brighter, smiling at Eliot. “Whadda ya think?”

Eliot stares at Dwight as if his brother is from Mars. “What do I think? I think the ebony's two thousand dollars and we only have one thousand for the entire funeral.”

Dwight ponders this, as if Eliot were sincerely posing a question. Lightbulb: “I can pay for it.”

“What?”

The elder laughs. “I been workin with the postal service a long time, little brother. I put some away, savings. It can be paid in installments?” He is looking at Stan now.

“I'm sure we can work something out.”

“What do you need installments for. I thought you had savings.”

“Well I don't have
all
of it!” Dwight laughs. “But I can cover half up front. And the rest.” Dwight leaves the sentence dangling, the idea having already been completed by the discussion of partial payments. He seems delighted to have resolved this issue so quickly.

Eliot stares at Dwight, then turns to Stan, whose face is frozen noncommittally. After a moment, the latter speaks. “You know, I have some other business I need to attend to. Why don't I leave you two alone to talk.” He walks out, closing the door behind him.

Eliot turns back to Dwight, his eyes narrowing. Dwight, befuddled by the heat he is gathering from his brother, does a doubletake.

“What!”

“I'm not letting that bloodsucker prey on our grief. The five-hundred-dollar casket is fine.”

“‘Fine'?
‘Fine'?
That's good enough for your mother? We only have one chance to do this, Eliot!” And Dwight bursts into tears. Eliot glares.

“It's
my
money! What's the difference if that's what I wanna do with it?”

“The difference is she's
our
mother, not
your
mother, and I say no.”

“Eliot! I been workin longer than you. I know you don't make much your kinda law, I know in the city rent's high. I don't mind doin this. I
wanna
do this!”

“You wanna be a fool for that parasite.”

“It's not about him! It's about Mom!”

“Oh you think Mom wants this? Letting some white man bamboozle her grown sons she thought she'd raised with some sense?”

“It ain't about black n white, Eliot!
every
thing to you's about—” Dwight takes a breath. “And if it was, you think if we were white he'd be sellin us the cheap junk? If you'll recall, that's what he started us with.
Maybe
I'd like to show him niggers can afford the ebony good as the whites.”

“Yeah I'm sure that's just what he's hoping. Nothing he loves better than when the spooks are trying to keep up with the goddamn white Joneses, he loves
that
all the way to the bank.”

“
Who cares what he thinks!
Who cares if he gets
rich?
It's not about him!”

“I know, it's about Mom, who as you know would be rolling in her grave if she knew after she took out that life insurance policy to cover all her expenses, we were sitting here contemplating going into debt on a damn two-thousand-dollar coffin.”

“
My
money! I said I'd pay for it! And whadda
you
know about Mom anyway? How many times the last few years you seen her?
I
seen her every Sunday, called her every day! Every day! I called her yesterday mornin and she was
fine!
” and Dwight is wailing again. Eliot is violently silent. Finally Dwight wipes his face. “Don't worry, I'm not gonna tell anyone. People'll jus think we both paid for it,” and it is with every fiber of his being that keeps Eliot's fists clutching his chair and away from his brother's face.

Forty minutes later they stand outside, having settled on the more moderately priced cherry, Dwight committing to making up the fiscal deficit. Parked in front of the parlor is an old red pickup truck. The street is one-way, and the truck parked on the left so that the driver's side is next to the sidewalk. Behind the wheel sits a slim blond man, late twenties or early thirties. He looks straight ahead. Not at the funeral home, despite the fact that there are many parking spaces and there would be no reason for him to park where he is unless he had business with the establishment. Not at the brothers, despite the fact that they are the only people on the street and only a few yards away from him. He wears a flannel shirt with both sleeves torn off leaving his arms bare, a tattoo of some kind on his left near the shoulder. Poster boy for trash, Eliot thinks, though he allows that at least the guy looks clean. Dwight glimpses the truck, then looks away.

“Eliot, listen, you go on ahead home. I got some things I gotta do, I'll be there in a while.”

Eliot's hands are in his pockets. “Who's that?”

“What? Oh, him! That's Keith, he's a friend.”

“Friend.”

“I gotta go, Eliot. I got some stuff to do, I'll come by the house later,” and Dwight runs to get into the passenger side of the pickup. The moment he closes the door he breaks down sobbing again. The driver steals a glance at Eliot before pulling off.

At home he is grateful that the constant flow of relatives and friends paying respects seems to be a comfort to his father, and that his assignment to write his mother's tribute means he is excused to shut his door against all visitors. He needs to finish before tomorrow evening, in time for Dwight to look it over and provide any input. They would also need to decide who would read the piece, someone close to their mother but not so close as to break down emotionally before finishing. Uncle Rick?

At 4:35 a soft rap at his door. His cousin Liddie, noticeably rounder since Christmas.

“Hey Eliot.”

“Hey Liddie.”

“You got company.”

He comes to the top of the steps, and when he sees her he dashes down. He takes both her hands, their faces beaming, eyes shining.

“I didn't expect you till tonight!”

“Well. When we got off the phone I knew daybreak was coming in a couple hours, thought I may as well pack up and hit the road. I must've put as many gallons of coffee in me as gas in the tank. Speaking of which. The bathroom?”

After Andi freshens up, he brings her to the guestroom. With the door closed, he reads aloud the first draft of the tribute for her feedback. He manages an impressive emotional detachment, simply presenting the words, so is surprised to look up at its conclusion and see her wiping tears. “I wish I could have met her.”

Then she says, “Eliot. Can I have a drink of water or something?”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Are you hungry?” Only now does he remember that he hasn't eaten since lunch back in Indianapolis yesterday.

On the way, he gives her a glimpse of his parents' bedroom, then they walk downstairs. In the living room, he introduces her to his father, who is surrounded by people. Despite his grief, Lon seems pleased to meet her, the first time since Eliot was in high school that the elder has ever been introduced to anyone from his younger son's life. She offers her condolences, and Lon takes her hand, smiling through glassy eyes.

Eliot leads her through the crowded TV room to the kitchen. He pulls a huge meat-and-cheese platter out of the refrigerator. They make sandwiches and talk. Aunt Beck and Claris's oldest sister Carol chat quietly nearby.

“How long yaw known each other?” Aunt Carol finally ventures.

“We work together,” Eliot says flatly. He already knows where this line of questioning is going, and has decided it's not.

“Well,” Aunt Beck taking her turn, “I bet
you
been workin there a lot longer n he has. Right? Andi?”

Andi starts to answer but Eliot stands. “I'm gonna show her the neighborhood before it gets dark.” He grasps her hand and they are both out the back door, leaving half-eaten sandwiches.

The temperature is in the low fifties and sunny, fortunate since Eliot had not bothered to grab their coats. He shows her Miss Onnie's house and Carl's and Roof's, Colored Street, and Jake's Hill where the kids used to, and he imagines still do, fly down on their sleds in the winter. The space where D'Angelo's Market once stood, now an empty lot. He takes her by his old school, and Miss Idie's, the white lady his mother had worked for when he was growing up, and the railroad station where they used to meet his father when he was a porter. They stand on the bridge gazing at the crick, its banks recently fortified by cement levies to prevent the periodic floods he remembers from childhood.

“You know they were asking about my age.” Andi's smile is wry but sad.

“They need to mind their own business.”

“From what you said on the phone last night. Your Aunt Beck sounds like quite a character. Once you get to know her.”

“She is. And she needs to mind her own business.”

When they return, Dwight is waiting for them at the back door, holding an outfit of their mother's. He is in a panic. “I been lookin all over for you! I have to give the funeral director Mom's clothes.”

“Dwight, this is Andi. Andi, this is my brother Dwight.”

“Hello.”

“Hi, nice to meet you. Eliot, he said he'd only wait till 6:30!” The clock on the wall reads 6:07. In his right hand Dwight holds a hanger, and draped over it a burgundy skirt-suit their mother often wore to church, complete with her faux pearl necklace. In his left hand Dwight holds a pair of her good brown loafers.

“He said no shoes.”

“I don't like the idea of her barefoot!”

Eliot takes a breath. “It's fine,” and Dwight flies out the door.

Dinnertime, and there is a lull in the crowd, the house quiet. Eliot notices that Andi's eyes are now heavy from driving all night. He tells her to go up and take a nap on the guest bed and she nods gratefully, dragging herself up the stairs. He walks into the living room to study the photos on the wall, pictures he's seen a thousand times but never
really
looked at. Shots of him and Dwight from babies on up. His father in his porter uniform, his father with another man at his defense job. Eliot at the lectern giving his high school valedictory speech, Eliot and his parents and brother when he received his law degree. Dwight at fourteen with Rex the dog, Dwight in his postman's uniform in front of his house in Lewis with elderly Rex. It occurs to Eliot that because mothers are often the ones taking the pictures, they are the most absent from them. He does find one image of her alone, Lon having caught her in action throwing icicles on the Christmas tree.