“I have to go,” I said.
I handed the phone to my father. He stared at me with his hurt child look again. But I walked away and returned to my place on the couch where I proceeded to kill as many hours as I could watching the videotaped lives of B-grade celebrities. This whole situation had left me with two options as far as I could see it. 1) I could think of all the reasons why I had allowed this to happen to me, or 2) I could pretend it wasn’t happening and that I wasn’t actually a person. With most precincts reporting, option number two was winning in a landslide.
For the next three days I nearly absented myself from time. My father was in and out during this time, saying things to me that I barely registered, expressing concern in his detached, awkward way, sighing out of his nose, anddelivering food. I went hours without remembering that he was in the house.
Until the morning of the fourth day.
I was on my fifteenth consecutive hour of reality television, and my fourth day in the same sweatpants when he walked into the living room, wearing a pressed black suit. I almost didn’t recognize him at first. His midlife crisis hair was slicked back, and he looked more polished than I’d seen him in years.
“Are you going to an old person prom?” I asked, staring at the screen.
He walked right up to me and straightened his tie.
“Tessie,” he said, “I’m going to need you to go upstairs and put on some real pants.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Realpants?”
“You know what I mean,” he said. “Pantspants.”
“Pants pants,” I mouthed to myself.
He grabbed the remote and turned off the television.
“And a nice shirt. Black if you have it.”
“I don’t,” I said.
But he was already walking out of the room. I had the shades pulled, and without the light from the television, the room was completely dark.
“What the hell is going on?” I asked.
“I’ll wait for you in the car,” he said. “We’re going to a funeral.”
¦¦¦
An hour later, I was wearing the realest pants I had, standing in the parking lot of Honey Creek Nature Preserve. I didn’t see a creek. Or any honey. But all around us were beautiful trees. Towering jack pines with gray-green needles and a few pale blue spruces—the names came back to me from Girl Scout Camp. I saw no sign of a funeral, though.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Now,” said my father, “we hike.”
He set off walking ahead of me, and I followed a few steps behind.
In the car on the way over, he had pretended like nothing had happened in the last few days. He didn’t mention my brooding, or ask me what was going on, and for once, I was thankful for his self-absorption. Instead of prying, he briefed me onhissituation. Essentially, he had been double-crossed. He was hired to do a funeral for someone named Maxine Harp, and now the client’s family had pulled out without ever telling him.
“Do you know what a pre-need deal is?” he asked me.
I shook my head.
“Basically, you meet with someone before they die andlock in costs for their funeral. The price of funeral real estate is always rising, so if you want to be buried, buying a plot early is a good idea. You can prepay for embalming liquid, mortician’s services, and even your burial gown. It’s a good way to get business ahead of time.”
“So, you had a pre-need deal with Maxine?” I asked.
He nodded.
“But you don’t have the money?”
He avoided my stare.
