CHAPTER 38
Maggie
Papa and Roland Sutcliff move the other bodies that were already in the embalming room into the casket closet, and they lay out Mama, Charlie, and Uncle Fred, side by side by side on three tables. While they are doing this, I fetch Uncle Fred’s church clothes out of his wardrobe and Mama’s prettiest dress—the white lace one with yellow ribbons. Before Roland Sutcliff returns home, he leaves Charlie’s best suit with us. Papa tells him that Mama, Uncle Fred, and Charlie are going to be honored the way the deceased used to be, before the flu.
The city has said there can be no more public funerals, no more viewings, no more careful readying for satin-lined caskets.
Remove the dead as quickly as possible from your homes and get them into the ground.That’s what the city leaflets said.
But that’s not what we’re going to do for Mama, Charlie, and Uncle Fred.
“When we’re all done here, we’ll take them into the parlor,” Papa says. “And we’ll honor them.”
Roland Sutcliff nods and says nothing. But in his eyes I see that helikes this idea very much. When he leaves, Papa tells me he’s not going to use the tank with the foul-smelling formalin. He’s not going to make the cuts and insert the tubes. He is going to leave the blood inside Mama, Uncle Fred, and Charlie because they will be buried this very day.
I reach for Mama’s apron on a hook, but Papa lays a hand on my arm.
“I need you to leave me while I dress them in their burial clothes. I’ll let you know when I’m ready for you to come back.”
I blush slightly and wish I could rub the color out. I won’t look at Uncle Fred’s and Charlie’s private parts, if that’s what he’s worried about. I can look away. “I’m thirteen,” I begin, but Papa cuts me off.
“It’s not that, Maggie. Their bodies are becoming stiff. You’ll think I’m being too rough with them. I don’t want you to see what I might have to do.”
I open my mouth to protest that I am not afraid of what happens in the embalming room. I’ve never been afraid. But I don’t get the chance to say this.
“Do as I say, Mags. Now.”
I turn for the kitchen.
I stand at the sink for what seems like a long time. I can hear Evie reading a story to Willa in the sitting room, and Alex cooing. I imagine he is cuddled against Evie’s chest as she reads, trying to make sense of the pictures in the book she holds.
When Papa finally calls for me to come back, he looks tired and worn out even with half his face covered behind his mask. It’s as if the effort to make the bodies obey has exhausted him. Mama and Uncle Fred and Charlie are now lying clothed on the tables. Their nightclothes are in a heap in the corner, ready to be burned, no doubt. The vents in the room are fully open and the room is chilled like it’s a huge icebox.
This time when I reach for the apron, Papa doesn’t stop me. I pull my mask out of my skirt pocket, tie it on, and join Papa at Mama’s side.
“Are you sure you want to be here?” he asks in a weary voice.
“I do. I know what to do, Papa. I know how to do the hair and cosmetics. I watched her do it a dozen times before the flu came. I know how to do it. Iwantto do it. I can take care of Charlie and Uncle Fred, too.”
He nods and then reaches for the canister of flesh-colored paste on a cart with all the other items he uses to fix and preserve the bodies. There are horrible berry-colored stains on Charlie’s and Mama’s faces. The flu somehow did that to them. I watch Papa for a few moments as he works to cover up the stains on Mama and when I ask if I can take care of Charlie, he extends the canister to me. I use a little wooden stick to get the paste out and then I rub it onto Charlie’s face and hands with a small sponge, the way I saw Mama do it. The skin on his face feels strange under the sponge, like a mask made of cold leather.
When we’re done with the flesh-colored paste, Papa tells me I can do Mama’s hair while he takes care of Uncle Fred’s beard and hair.
Mama’s hair is a tangled mess from her sweating and shivering and writhing. I have never seen her with her hair in such a state. I wet the hairbrush with lavender water and gently smooth out all the snarls, trying not to tug too hard. I use the curling rods and I style Mama like she is going to a party. I find myself talking to her, just like she talked to the deceased people she worked on. I let her know her hair is back to the way it is supposed to be, and that the rouge I put on her cheeks is just the right shade, and that I was very careful with the lipstick and brow pencil so as not to make wiggly mistakes. This is my way of saying good-bye, I think to myself. A much better way than how I was supposed to have said it last night when she seemed to be drowning right there on her bed.
Papa glances over at me now and then. Perhaps my talking to Mama like this is comforting to him. I hope it is.
Every minute I am with her, she looks more and more like Mama again. When I’m done with her hair and cosmetics, she looks like she could open her eyes, hop off the table, and ask me to set the table for dinner. But then I touch her hands that are crossed over her waist andthey are now like marble, cold and hard. The finger she had raised the night before is clamped down against the rest of her hand, and when I try to move it, I can’t. This is when I know in my soul Mama is truly gone from me and the body that looks like her isn’t her at all.
When I had helped Mama before in this room, I had only ever handed her things. She was the one who touched the bodies. I had not known how much like stone the dead became.
“The stiffness will pass,” Papa says gently. He has turned around from Charlie’s body to stand next to me. He saw me try to move Mama’s hand. “But not before it gets worse.”
“Why? Why is she like that?” I say, not looking up from Mama’s statuelike hands.
“I don’t know why this happens. I only know that it does.”
I look up at him and I see a tear sliding down his cheek. He is staring at Mama. He touches one of the curls I made. Her hair at least is still feather soft, like always.
