“Please.”
“What should I tell her?”
I hesitate. It’s my job to tell her that her grandfather has died. But Jack has to give a reason for rushing her home, and either he lies about that or… what? What would be best for my daughter?
“Tell her he collapsed,” I suggest, but even in such a short time, seeming by instinct, he gets Joy all too well.
“She’ll ask more.”
“Tell her the paramedics are here.”
“What do I say if she asks if he’s dead? Kids jump ahead. I would.”
“What would you tell her?”
He considers it for only a beat. “I’d tell her the truth. But I’m not you, Mal. You’re her mother.”
“Okay. Tell her if she asks.” Joy may not be a full adult, but she’s halfway there. A straight question warrants a straight answer. And while I have no reason to trust Jack to give it with the sensitivity I would, I trust him completely.
It makes no sense—not my trusting Jack, not the anticlimax in the potting shed as the paramedics load up, not Tom Aldiss leaving the house on the bluff for the very last time.
It makes no sense that Bill Houseman should be Anne’s strength, or that I’m the one to snatch up a missed scrap of gauze from the potting shed floor, or that the ambulance is barely gone when several townsfolk drive by to lay flowers on our front steps in honor of a man whose honor they had once seriously doubted.
It makes no sense that while Margo insists that her husband and sons not cut short their trip, I am eternally grateful when, after delivering Joy into my arms, Jack stays—and that Anne says nothing.
It makes no sense that when Mike Hartley arrives with a truckload of switchgrass, beach plum, bayberry, and goldenrod, we insist he plant them, at least, Margo and I do. Living and green is what we need. Anne only comes around after Bill points out that Tom wanted it.
Taking Joy with him, Jack goes to the bluff to direct Mike and save us those questions, at least. There are so many others we can’t answer—like where and when to bury Dad and dressed in what—like whether the funeral should be at the funeral home, the church,or the graveside and who should eulogize him—like whether he even wants a wake—and even before all that, there’s the urgent issue of organ donation. Death isn’t a topic we ever discussed with Dad, and if Anne doesn’t know, who will?
One name comes to mind and, suddenly, having him here is a must. Paul Schuster is a grown-up. Technically, we are, too, though right now it doesn’t feel that way. It occurs to me, as I key in the call, that when it comes to the death of a parent, a child is a child regardless of age.
When Paul answers, I blurt out the basics, after which I break down. I didn’t cry when Joy arrived, simply held her while she did, and I do come close to crying each time I look at Jack, who is in our house only because Dad is not. But while my eyes tear up seeing the empty chair in the living room as I make this call, it isn’t until I hear the voice of Paul, who was such a stable part of my childhood, that my control dissolves.
He murmurs disjointed words of comfort, seeming as upset by my tears as he is by my news. Like Jack, though, he is able to think. “Tom and I did talk about this. No to organ donation, despite my efforts to change his mind. As for the rest, it’s all on paper. I’ll bring that.” And fifteen minutes later, he arrives.
Paul Schuster’s is a welcome face, framed as it is by kind memories. Though never as tall and thin as my dad, he moves with a fitness that belies his age. His face is lightly lined, his brown hair faded. He wears slacks and an open-necked shirt, carries a worn leather briefcase, and has hazel eyes, which I only notice now because of their compassion, to which I cling. He is there for us. It’s a steadying thought.
I’m not the only one who finds strength in Paul. My sisters do as well, to judge from our collective composure as we sit at the kitchen table listening to Dad’s letter—which is sohimthat, in other circumstances, we would have laughed. He spells out in detail what he wants in these first days, naming the director of his funeral homeof choice, his preferred style of casket and desire for peonies on top, and the location of his plot in the town cemetery. A draft of his obituary is attached, as if he knew of Margo’s hidden talent and was leaving the finished version to her. He wants to be buried in his judicial robe, and he wants people to be able to pay their respects for one full day and one full day only. He is specific about that. Tom Aldiss is controlling from the grave.
But we don’t mind. We now have direction, little jobs to do at a time when we’re still in shock.
This is what funerals are for. They keep the family busy to distract them from the actual loss.
Physical activity works best. For us, that means cleaning the house. If the flowers that have shown up on the front steps are a sign, people will be following. The town grapevine is in full swing, reports Lina, who is otherwise silent and always efficient. Though we’ll have to be the ones to direct her on what to toss and what to keep, she immediately sets to neatening and polishing. She also digs out the large coffee urn that hasn’t been used in years.
I have two other priorities. First comes the planting on the bluff. Since I arranged to have it done, I’m the one who stays behind to supervise while Margo and Anne go to the funeral home. And they’re the right ones to work with the director there. Anne lived with Dad all these years, while Margo, his firstborn, thinks as he does. And me, who may or may not be his biological daughter? Better at home.
Not that I don’t feel guilty staying. Theirs is the heavier task. But their doing it together is a good thing. Margo insists on driving, and Anne, clutching a wad of tissues, doesn’t argue, so they’re meshing on this at least. I want to think it’s a harbinger—because it occurs to me, as I watch Margo’s rental disappear over the crest, that with Dad gone, we’re alone. Whether we keep in touch is up to us. Whetherwe find common ground on which to move forward is up to us. Whether we have any relationshipat allis up to us.
And then there’s Paul. While my sisters welcomed his presence in the kitchen, I’m not sure they feel any further connection. I do. With Dad gone, Paul’s here, and he has answers that I want.
Once Margo and Anne have left, I walk out to the bluff. Though Jack and Joy are up to their knees in plantings, they are quickly with me, Joy full of frightened questions. Where have her aunts gone? Where is Papa right now? Even, albeit in an awkward whisper, what will she wear to a funeral, since she didn’t bring anything black?
They both also ask how I am. Joy’s concern I expect. Jack’s is a gift. When, at my urging, Joy returns to the planting, he lingers, holding my hand for a few last moments.
“If you have to go back to work…” I say, offering him an out.
“No. My partner is there. She’ll cover.”
