Luck (26 page)

There is this to be said for so comedically brittle a scene: it’s a diversion. It exposes a whole welter of prickly emotions that are, even cumulatively, much smaller than grief. Some of the people who formed a mob at the gate wore buttons that read, “What would Jesus do?” which Nora thought, as a matter of fact, was a question they might well be asking themselves. At the moment she is wondering, What would Philip do?

Philip would throw a big arm around this Bill’s shoulders. He would say, “Come on, let’s get out of here, go get us a beer. Do you play pool? Are you interested in poker?” But Philip isn’t available to play merry host, he isn’t here to look from Nora to Lynn to Bill and remark, “I bet we have some things we could talk about, right?” and let loose one of his head-back belly-laughs. Nora says quietly, “Actually, it’s nice you’re here. Philip would have been pleased.”

“Do you think so? Would
pleased
be the word?”

“Maybe not. Maybe impressed, though. Or touched.”

“Or gratified.”

Okay. Nora turns abruptly to Max. “We may as well go in, shall we?” Philip, who never opposed non-lethal tensions as long as they entertained him, would be enjoying this. He might even, as Lynn suggests, be gratified, not only by all the attention but also its jittery qualities. That same jitteriness, however, does make it difficult to concentrate on happy moments with him, on characteristics and memories and pleasing pictures. He wouldn’t like that so much.

Sometimes he feels likeable, other times not. Sometimes his appealing qualities have their opposing aspects; which is ordinary enough, and rather like love, in that qualities which at some point attract may well come, down the road, to repel.

Hendrik Anderson was right, there’s a good turnout; a surprising number, really. There are Philip’s poker pals, some fellows he drank with, or fished with, and wives. Ted Marlowe, that’s nice, it’s probably not all that common for a doctor to attend the funeral of one of his patients. Dave Hamilton and Susannah, too, they must have juggled court schedules and appointments to be here. At a glance there’s no sign of Joy Geffen, who perhaps feels an offering of food was enough and the loss of an afternoon’s business too much. There are also familiar faces besides Lynn’s that don’t come from around here, but from other parts of his life: clients, suppliers, people like that, who turned into friends, and who could shift gears quickly enough, or were idle enough, to get here in time. It appears some people have ignored the no-flowers rule. There are several stiff, unappealing arrangements, the local florist rising ineptly but profitably to the occasion. Still, people have tried. In this town, never mind elsewhere, Philip had a life, lives, with little connection to the women now moving to the front row of seats: Nora first, followed by Sophie, then Beth. Somewhere behind them come Lynn and her Bill; but it is Max, Nora, Sophie and Beth who take the places for family, which is a stretch, all things considered.

Nora’s eyes are locked on the plain casket, a sight that nearly knocks her to the floor. Philip is inside, right there. This is real. This is so staggeringly real that she falls into her seat as if stabbed, every surface and organ in sharp, shooting pain. It all hurts, all over again. She can feel Max looking at her, alarmed. Did Philip feel pain anything like this, alone in the night?

Look at that box—has she made some bad, irreversible mistakes here? If he’d been in charge of arrangements, Philip would have paid better attention to shadings and grains in the
wood, whatever it is, of the casket. It wouldn’t have looked so
utilitarian
in his hands, although he might have liked its simplicity. He used to say, “Too many people think style is decoration. I think it’s paring back until only what’s essential is left.” Gingerbread, curlicues, wooden or brass folderol made his lip curl. “Camouflage,” he called it. “And worse, cheap sentiment.” He told customers attempting rebellion, “You want to make a statement, not fiddle around with extra bits. Let a piece be honest and say what it needs to. Leave it alone.” This less-than-imposing box may fulfil his requirements for honesty. It definitely makes its own simple statement. But something much more complicated is inside, and should that not be reflected?

Something may be inside, but it is not Philip. Remember that. Hold in mind, along with much else, Philip the young, grinning, forthright, promising, naked man in a doorway.

This straightens her up, this makes her smile.

Sophie closes her eyes so that she can not only see Phil’s hands, but can feel one resting comfortingly on her shoulder, moving tenderly to her throat. In this way he is still taking care, being careful, which is good, and causes her lips to curve upwards.

It must say only good things about him that he leaves women smiling.

Except Beth. Beth, dressed in pale yellow, presenting herself calmly and firmly, feels quite vividly the quivers around her of unease and antipathy and, as she knew there would be, acquiescence, although she’s also perfectly aware of Nora making sure Sophie stays between them. She watched that tense, mean little scene out on the front steps with a mildly interested eye on Philip’s first wife, assessing his tastes, which must have been wide to include both that woman and Nora,
never mind Sophie, who Beth believes must be included. Beth has walked past those people on the chairs back there as if she were strolling a runway, fully conscious of movement and beauty and an exaggerated, professional grace that once was water to her and air, and having done all that, heard all that, felt all that with the acuteness and inevitability of a dream, she now cannot take her eyes off the casket.

She has never seen one before; has never even been to a funeral home. How plain and sharp-cornered it is. Signifying plain, sharp-cornered death, not abstractly or remotely but raw and up close. If she stood and took just a couple of steps, she could touch death. Imagine! She has a great desire to do that very thing, but—
impulse control!
She trembles, her fingers tap on her knees, her toes and heels click up and down. Sophie, sitting quietly beside her, doesn’t like her, and Nora, two spaces down, is avoiding her. Who loves her? Who should love her?

Grief rattles right through her and into her bones.

She smells the perfume in the humidity of that last, long drive home. She can hear her mother’s hoarse voice speaking of Beth’s promise, her several glittering futures. Here’s the weariness of her complaint of a terrible headache. To cure and end all of which, Beth prepared tea. And the words: “I know it’s bitter. Best to just drink it right down.”

She did that. To her mother, yes, but her mother also existed apart, an unhappy, hopeful woman who had been beautiful, and who mourned lost opportunities; who sat for long hours on hard chairs and drove many miles in search of those lost opportunities; who was even a child herself at one time, with playmates and parents and adventures Beth has no way of knowing about. A woman who later had conversations, maybe even tender ones, with Beth’s father.

Who then writhed her way out of experience and a whole long known and unknown history, right out of life. At Beth’s hands. She looks at the plain wooden box, she looks at her hands. “Oh, Mum.” She hears that from inside her head. She didn’t truly know; now she nearly does. She never called her mother anything as cozy as
Mum
, but that’s the word, glass in her skin, that comes to her now.

How could this be?

A sharp elbow slams into her side, a sharp voice whispers, “Beth. What the hell’s the matter with you? Stop it. Sit still.”

Daddy, too, whom she hardly called
Daddy.

There would have been a service for her mother, there would have been people attending who knew her mother in ways Beth has no notion of. Horror would have accompanied them to that funeral, along with their sorrow. Beth might even have been more on their minds than her mother. Her story, what she did, would have wrapped itself around both her parents, crushing the life out of them. She hears her father’s tragic voice asking why. She smells the blood and feathers of dead birds he brings home. She sees her mother’s wide brilliant mouth, hears that husky voice speaking of
accomplishments, prospects.
She hears “Kentucky Woman” and recalls white dresses and edged, drawling accents and the scents of mascara and powdery blushes. There are hotel rooms with landscapes over the beds and television sets hidden behind cabinet doors, bolted down. She sees miles and miles of fields and expressways, roadside lilies and daisies speeding by, city towers and lights appearing ahead, fading behind. She speaks about the importance to the world’s children of song. She takes a turn down a promenade. She finds that point on the kitchen ceiling, a circular flaw, a water stain maybe, to watch.

She has
accomplishments
, she has
prospects.
See her smile invitingly, innocently, madly at all the judges in the world. She wins some, loses some, is rescued and saved again and again, perhaps due to beauty, by lawyers and doctors and others, until she is finally free, and then she is rescued and saved one more time, by Nora, who no longer needs her. Who does not want her. How can someone who has touched, bent and shaped her, who knows every inch of her and has used every pore, not want her; not care? Beth’s mother touched, bent and shaped her. And used her. And cared.

What does Nora know? What does she see?

Beth’s mother said, “If you’re not feeling well, or you’re unhappy, or someone’s said or done something that’s mean or unfair, don’t let it show when you’re up there. Do your best. Always hold on to that smile. Don’t cry till you win.” All right, she can do that.

Now there are three women smiling.

A blond-bearded, wispy-haired fellow in clerical collar bends to introduce himself to Nora. “I’m very sorry for your loss. I’ll do my best to say what needs saying. I hope you won’t find the service impersonal. It’s more difficult, not having known him.”

Nora nods. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Although she realizes immediately that he was not seeking reassurance, simply speaking a fact.

He begins the service with the 23rd Psalm. Just about everyone knows it and can recite along. It has a calming effect. Good for him. There is something to be said for ceremony; although after all she was probably more right than wrong in her choices, and anyway it’s too late to change them.

He speaks the little he knows about Philip Lawrence, gleaned from common town knowledge and from details
passed by Sophie to Hendrik Anderson: that he was young for a visit from death; that he was a well-known designer and maker of high-quality furniture; that he had many friends in this town, where he not only lived for the past fifteen years but spent happy summers in childhood with grandparents whose names are old and familiar here. That’s about it. Like a wedding, that other life-altering ritual, it seems the words of a funeral don’t take very long.

But wait, there’s more: the impersonal part, vague but pretty words to do with death itself, and faith, transitions from one aspect of life to another, by which he presumably means the eternal sort, and evolutions of grief from shock to serene or respectful or affectionate memory. “What each person leaves behind when life ends,” is how he puts this. He looks relieved when he comes to an ending himself. “I would now,” he says finally, “invite anyone who wishes to say a few words about the life of Philip Lawrence to do so.”

Oh dear. There’s one of those awkward, shuffling silences before someone does rise, there are footsteps and here’s Dave Hamilton standing with a hand hovering over the coffin, glancing briefly down at it. He begins speaking in the anxious tones of a lawyer summarizing, without notes, the case on behalf of a guilty defendant. “I saw Philip at least once a week, and was always grateful that a person didn’t have to own his work to be his friend, because I sure couldn’t afford anything he made.” Can that be true? He’s a lawyer after all, and lawyers have money, so maybe, in fact, he didn’t really like Philip’s work. “We played poker just about every Thursday for years, but he wasn’t very good and he never got any better. If he had great cards, he couldn’t help smiling, and if he had bad ones, he was too obviously downcast.” Here and there, people chuckle—who knew comic relief, however marginal,
would be welcome? Clever Dave. His voice relaxes, he smiles.

“He was bad at bluffing, that was his trouble. But what he brought to our games, besides the money the rest of us won”—more laughter—“was his good nature. He liked a good time, as everyone does, but he also knew how to create a good time, as everyone doesn’t. He was intelligent and knowledgeable about current events—well, as we all know, there’ve been times when he was part of current events, and he even managed to enjoy some aspects of that difficult period. All in all he took pleasure in his life, and gave others pleasure, so it’s especially unfair that he’s gone so early. His chair at our games is going to be hard to fill. We’ll miss his energy and enjoyment. And …” Dave looks down, gives the coffin a smile “… his money, of course.” As if this is just another lost game. Also as if Philip was not actually quite artful about bluffing.

That looks to be it for Dave Hamilton, who heads back to his seat. Now Max is rising and taking his place. He looks at Nora, looks at Sophie, looks around at the rest of the room. “I am here,” he begins, “as friend and admirer, and as someone with great respect for Philip’s attention and care for his work. He created comfort, he understood how important that is, and he also gave comfort to those around him.” This makes better sense. It not only sounds more or less true, but takes Philip seriously, as a serious person. “He understood that the design of his work should be simple and beautiful, but also comfortable, because life is often complicated and not comfortable. This is not a peaceful understanding, but it is a wise one. Those fortunate enough to possess his work should appreciate it in that spirit, as those of us fortunate enough to know him appreciate the fullness and generosity
of his presence. He was no more perfect than anyone else, nor in death does he become so, but those who mourn him most profoundly will be sustained by the memory of a man who lived as fully and lovingly as he could, which is a great deal for anyone to leave behind in the world.”