Heather Frese | The Coffee Table Book of Funeral Etiquette
Prologue: Be advised that dead bodies may not fully resemble the people they once were. This fact will be upsetting. Remember that the mortician did the best he/she could, and did not stretch the skin around the deceased’s eyes so tightly as to make him/her appear Asian on purpose. Keep in mind that, upon first glance at the corpse, the bereaved may begin to feel as though they’re in a bubble, encapsulated in a gaping emptiness.
I stand over the body of my Aunt May, the body of the one constant presence in my life. Aunt May never, not once in her life, wore thick pancake make-up with circles of rouge on her cheeks like a china doll. She slept flat-out on her stomach, not primly on her back, hands crossed neatly one over the other. Her hair was wild and wind-blown, sticking out in frantic tufts, not perfectly positioned in stiff, starched curls. I expected her death; what I didn’t expect was the wrenching pain in my chest when she went, the absolute, utter finality of the separation cleaving into me. I didn’t expect to scream and hold on to her like a toddler when they took her body away. I didn’t expect to recede inside myself. I didn’t expect that at all. And so I stand over her body, the dutiful niece, my hair pulled back neatly from my face; I’m wearing a crisp black suit. I wonder, idly, if I can recycle the suit when I finally get my real estate license, or if that’s just plain bad taste all around. Do real estate agents even wear crisp black suits?
“Mom,” my son, Austin, says, tugging at my hand. Austin is six years old. I don’t know if that’s old enough to understand death, to understand that Aunt May’s not just sleeping, that the creepy, pallid body in the polished box is not her. Austin wiggles his tie. “I think Walter just bit Grandpa.”
I look away from Aunt May, across the dimly-lit room crowded with people. It’s warm and the air smells of thirty different perfumes. Over by the guestbook, my best friend, Charlotte, tugs at the tiny black snarling mass that is Walter, Yorkshire Terrorist extraordinaire. Walter lunges at my dad and barks, sharp and high-pitched, and the hum of conversation stops. Walter latches on to Dad’s pant leg and growls, shaking his head. For a moment the air is filled with nothing but sad, sad organ music. On a hill far away, stood an old rugged cross. Dad kicks his leg until Walter lets go. Walter’s posture changes, softens. People start talking again. My dad gives Walter a dirty look and goes across the room to hug someone. Walter glances up at Charlotte and wags his stub of a tail, as if he’s expecting praise, then sits down and licks his chops. He never did get along with my dad.
I send Austin to my mom and walk over to Charlotte, my heels sinking into the too-soft carpet. I’ve never read a book of funeral etiquette, and I certainly don’t know if there’s one that covers proper behavior when the deceased’s beloved Yorkie, specially instructed to be present at calling hours, starts attacking mourners. For a second I picture a funereal massacre—scattered limbs, Walter’s muzzle wet with blood, people stumbling over one another in search of missing body parts.
“I think he’s still out for blood,” Charlotte says. She stands up. Walter takes his leash in his mouth and barks around it.
I wave my brother, Nate, over to Charlotte’s corner. “Take Walter outside,” I say to Nate.
Nate looks suspicious, or maybe that’s just the look he gets on his face whenever Charlotte’s around. Six years ago, Nate and Charlotte had a thing. Now what they have is a history. “You’re the only one he doesn’t bite,” Nate says. I want to say “nuh-uh,” to stamp my foot and insist Nate do it. Being around my brother brings out the latent brat in me. He’s right, though. Walter’s a nutbag, but I can make him behave.
I take Walter’s leash from Charlotte and walk outside. It’s a windy spring Hatteras day, chilly and sharp, with a blueberry sky. Aunt May would’ve laughed if I’d said something like “blueberry sky” to her. She had no patience for fanciful language. “This is this and that is that, no two ways about it, kid.” Walter huffs and looks up at me, expectant, as if he wants me to say, “Go for a walk?” He paws the ground like a bull. “Not now,” I tell him. I sit down on a stair step. My crisp black suit will get dirty and my hair’s already wind-blown, but I don’t care. The parking lot’s full of cars and trucks, rusty old island vehicles with North Carolina plates and fishing poles sticking out everywhere. Charlotte’s rental, a BMW with Virginia plates, looks slick and shiny and out of place. I want to take off my heels and run away. I want this fissure in my chest to stop reverberating. I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this all day. I don’t know what to do. If I were to write a how-to book of funeral etiquette, it would be the coffee table kind. Glossy pages, bright illustrations. Something to set out at my parents’ inn for guests to flip through as they wait to check in.
A car pulls up and I decide that Chapter One should deal with arrivals. For the bereaved, the arrival of the one’s former illicit lover may add an extra layer of complication to the grieving process. Try to maintain composure when coming face to face with the bodily incarnation of a past bad decision. Royce Burrus steps out of his car, polished loafers, adorable Buddha belly, and all. I’ve been thinking of Royce lately, mainly because whenever I drive up and down Highway Twelve, which, between going to work, picking up Austin, driving Aunt May to doctor appointments, and going to Nags Head for real estate classes, I do about eight thousand times a day, I see big signs that say, “Make Royce your choice.” Royce is running for County Commissioner. Two years ago, when I was stuck in a lousy marriage, I made Royce my choice. Then I dumped him and got divorced, and I’ve been single for two years now. Royce walks across the parking lot to me. He’s carrying a bright yellow bouquet of flowers and the largest card I’ve ever seen. If he’d mailed that thing it would’ve needed ten stamps, I swear.
Royce sits down on the step. I reign in Walter’s leash and put him on the other side of me. “Evie, honey,” Royce says. He always liked to call me “Evie, honey.” “I’m just really sorry. I know you and May were close.” Royce pats my back. The ghost of our affair hovers between us.
“Thank you,” I say. Then I think that “thank you” sounds off. It’s not like he just complimented my hair. Chapter One of the coffee table book would go on to consider appropriate responses to initial condolences. The mourner should carry a set of stock phrases in his or her grief arsenal. Acceptable condolence-responses include “thank you,” “he/she would be happy to see you here,” and the ever-popular and multifunctional silent nod while beginning to cry. “Thanks for coming.” Only I don’t know if I mean it. I stand up and Royce and Walter and I go inside. Royce holds the door for me and the warm, sicky-sweet air turns my stomach. Royce balances the giant bouquet and signs the guestbook. I don’t get the whole guestbook thing. What do we do with it after? Charlotte catches my eye and I mouth Royce and jerk my head toward him. She grimaces and comes over to steer Royce to a group of older men in fishing waders. Yes. Waders.