I tried not to look out into the crowd. Slowly, I read the script in front of me. His first words to me were… Three to four minutes, that was all I needed. Kevin went up after me. He was barely audible; he had stood too far from the microphone. Dammit Kevin. Chip was late. He called to say he couldn’t find parking. He would have to do his speech at the reception after. I radio-ed the conductor. The choir chimed in: My Shepherd will supply my need, Jehovah is His name… In long, white robes, the 14 singers stood up on the chancel, on a mezzanine at the back of the church. Their voices filled the hall.
“It’s like angels singing,” somebody said when the service was over. These angels were expensive. The soloist brought in to sing the bit in Panis Angelicus cost extra. They were good. The sound recordist I hired didn’t do them justice. After I read the eulogy, I walked to the back of the nave and sat in one of the back pews. I picked up a program. Premium grade, 300g, semi-matte with an eggshell wash. The type was Caslon, point 11; simple, elegant. Thank you for your generosity, and for all the love, it said on the cover.
I read the sentence again. No, I still wasn’t sure if I needed that first comma.
The visitors who came to St Ignatius Loyola in New York that morning had come from all over the world – London, Paris, San Francisco. Mostly they were people Charlie and I knew in the city though there were a few I didn’t recognize. Some names I might have heard from when Charlie used to mention them in passing, but I didn’t try very hard to remember. They all came to me and say they were sorry. It was the first time I was meeting them, but under the circumstances, I wasn’t sure whether to smile or look sad.
Charlie was confirmed in this church, only a few weeks before he died. It was very large, very old and very quiet, and I can understand why he liked being there. He had become quiet, even pious, in the weeks leading up to his death. His mom Jenny and aunt Mel, when they visited, would read to him the Bible, from which he seemed to find a great sense of peace. A few weeks before he died he had asked for a rosary. I’ve never been a religious person, and neither had he. On that point we began to drift apart. His conversion to Catholicism was something I wanted no part of. I was angry at him; I was angry at everyone, even God. God had no right to tell him it was okay to die, I thought.
When Father Bergen stood up to speak, I stepped outside for a cigarette. The spring air nipped at my face. It was quite the perfect May day – sunny with the last lingering touch of winter. I wondered if Charlie would have preferred to die in the summer. It was his favorite season. He loved the sun. It was probably what killed him.
I sat on the church steps and waited for Father Bergen to finish the homily. When I heard the choir sing, I went back inside.
Later, during the reception, more people came up to me. Some shook my hand, others put their arms around me. Xixi, Trang Nguyen, and Heather all took turns to speak. Mark and Josie played a photo slide-show from his Macbook. The video was paired with some of Charlie’s favorite tunes. “You’re beautiful”, by James Blunt; “Iwoya”, by Angelique Kidjo. I remembered these songs from his iPod. Josie told me later that Mark had spent days putting together the 30-minute clip.
“He hardly said a word. He stared at the computer for days, e-mailing and calling everyone we knew to send in photos they had of Charlie. He was obsessed,” she said.
My heart broke, finally; I knew what she meant exactly.
By 3pm the restaurant was getting rowdy. We were down to our last platter of mini-quiches. The bartenders were ready to call it a day. It was time to go, I said, thank you for coming, and in groups they left, again shaking, hugging, pinching my body.
“It was really, really, just a wonderful service.”
“The choir, that was a nice touch.”
“Charlie would have been so proud.”
“Congratulations, I had a wonderful time.”
Jenny said I looked beautiful.
“Thank you,” I said. Here was my husband’s funeral, and in that moment, I felt like a bride.
IN THREE WEEKS, I had put together two funerals. The service in New York was the second. The first was in Leesburg, Virginia, where Charlie was born. He was buried in the Union Cemetery, next to his grandmother in the family plot. I’ve been there several times now. When Jenny first took me, Charlie had died maybe three days earlier.
There’s room for three good spots left, Jenny said when she drove me to the cemetery in the afternoon. “See?” she said, pointing down to an unmarked area of grass. Two headstones with the word “Walker” carved on them sat nearby.
“This is where we’re putting Charlie,” she told me.
I nodded.
“Deb and I will be buried here, too,” she continued. “I’ll ask her if I can have the spot next to Charlie, I’m sure she won’t mind.”
“What about Mel?” I asked. Surely she wanted to be with her sisters, I thought.
“Oh, she’s sorted. She’ll be with B. in Paris.”
A gust of wind blew over the field. Nothing moved; we were alone in the world.
I had an impulse to ask Jenny if I could buy a spot somewhere here near Charlie, but I didn’t. We took a little walk around the cemetery. I lit up a Parliament.
The Union Cemetery is in a large field about two blocks past the county courthouse. Neat, round-top stones spotted the terrain, and as I walked by them, “McCleod”, “Williams”, “Eamon”, I was reminded of a Chinese poem I learned in school:
Scattered in the fields are such round buns; in the end, we’ll all have to ourselves, each person one.
Rows of trees flanked the perimeter of the cemetery; the grass was kept short and tidy. It was 4pm and the sun was still blazing. I lit another cigarette. From a distance, the sound of a pick-up rumbled into the graveyard.
“Do you think he’ll like it here?” Jenny asked me.
We were back at the Walkers. Yes, I said, I think he will.
A red GMC Sierre drove up next to us. A heavy-set man in a sweaty plaid shirt looked out the car window and asked Jenny where she’d like the grave dug.
She led him to the spot while I finished my cigarette. I noticed there were no birds or butterflies or anything that seemed alive, except for a cloud here and there. I peered down to look for signs of life in the ground – an ant, or worm or something. Nothing.
A brief discussion about how much to dig to leave room for two more ensued between her and the grave-digger. His measurements taken, the man said he was real sorry when he heard about her boy, before getting back into his pick-up.
“Thank you for saying that,” Jenny said, and waved goodbye. I reached for another cigarette.
After he had gone, the two of us stood for a while longer at the spot, now marked by metal rods dug into the ground, forming a large rectangle. It seemed smaller than I would have expected.
Then, Jenny said: “I was thinking, Lee, that if you like, if you’re cremated, maybe someone, your sister or brother, could bring your ashes here and scatter them around this field.
“Do you think you would like that?”
I felt a stirring in my stomach. I looked up.
“Thank you for saying that,” I said. “Yes, I think I would.”
WE PICKED OUT THE CASKET THE SAME DAY. Solid oak, light brown, no frills. Charlie would have liked it. The woman at the funeral home spoke tenderly. I don’t remember what she looks like. I recall small, pink flowers – but I don’t know if that was what she was wearing, or the way she smelled. She went through the home’s services, item by item. She seemed impossibly gentle. A real pro, I thought.
“This is for flying him home, the transport, embalming, the outdoor canopy, will you be wanting any floral arrangements?” she asked. A heavy folder appeared in front of me. A catalog of flowery contortions. Everything seemed beautiful and inappropriately garish at the same time.
I picked out a thing with red roses.
“The visitation is planned for tomorrow evening. Do you know, if it will be open, or closed viewing?”
Closed, please.
“We can have it open for family members, for a few minutes before the guests arrive. Would that be something you might want?”
Ok.
“And the graveside service, that’s in two days?” Yes.
“Will you be needing any car service for that?” Sure.
“Did you bring any clothes that belonged to him, maybe a suit he liked, something you’d want to put him in?”
I handed her a bag I had packed from New York.
“We’ve notified the local paper and radio station, it’s going out tomorrow. The station said they could read something tomorrow at 10 and 3 in the afternoon.”
Ok.
“Do you have something written you’d like us to read?”
I gave her a copy of the notice I put in the New York Times.
“Thank you. And, we’ll provide a register book for the visitation tomorrow. The death certificates will probably be ready in a few days’ time. We’ll have two copies that will be free. Will you be needing extra copies? It’s five dollars for every extra copy.”
Let’s do 10.
“Thank you. Now, is there anything else I can do for you, or if you have any questions at all about what’s going to happen tomorrow and the day after?”
No, thank you.
“All right. I”ll update this list and have everything written up for you before the visitation tomorrow. Now, I don’t think we’ve discussed this, but I just wanted to be sure… Will this be check or credit?”
Check, please.
“Ok. Give me just a few minutes here. I’m sorry, I know the last thing you want to be doing is sitting here answering a long list of questions.”
It’s all right.
“Let’s see… The total will be… just under $12,000, here you go.” She pointed to a figure on her calculator.
“Does that look all right to you?” Yes, yes.
“Don’t worry, we take care of everything.” Yes, yes.
“And, please accept my condolences. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
Yes. Thank you.
