The Good Daughter

  “Why would I want to cover it?”

  Sam could not think of a good reason. No one would likely be at the funeral, at least no one Sam wanted to see. Rusty had hardly been a popular figure in town. Sam would make an appearance, then she would go to the farmhouse, then she would wait for Stanislav to drive up from Atlanta and leave this place as fast as she could.

  That was, if she could manage to find the energy to stand. The muscle relaxer was still in her system. She could feel the drug weighing her down. Sam had been awake less than fifteen minutes and she could have just as easily gone back to sleep.

  She picked up the mug of tea.

  “Don’t drink that.” Charlie’s cheeks were flush. “It’s got boob sweat.”

  “It’s got—”

  “Boob sweat,” Charlie said. “I ran the tea bag under my bra when you weren’t looking.”

  Sam put down the mug. She should have been irritated, but she laughed. “Why would you do that?”

  “Don’t expect me to explain myself,” Charlie said. “I don’t know why I’m acting like a kid again, pestering you, trying to annoy you, trying to get your attention. I see myself doing it and I fucking hate it.”

  “Then stop.”

  She groaned out a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to fight, Sam. Dad wouldn’t want that, especially not today.”

  “Actually, Dad loved arguments.”

  “Not the hurtful kind.”

  Sam drank some tea. She needed the caffeine too much to care what was in it. “So, what now?”

  “I guess I’m going to go cry in the shower and then get ready for my father’s hastily arranged funeral.”

  Charlie rinsed her coffee mug in the sink. She loaded it into the dishwasher. She wiped her hands on a towel. She started to leave.

  “My husband died.” Sam had pushed out the words so fast that she wasn’t sure Charlie had heard them. “His name was Anton. We were married for twelve years.”

  Charlie’s lips parted in surprise.

  “He died thirteen months ago. Esophageal cancer.”

  Charlie’s mouth moved as she tried to think what to say. She settled on, “I’m sorry.”

  “It was tannins,” Sam said. “In wine. They’re—”

  “I know what tannins are. I thought that kind of cancer was caused by HPV.”

  “His tumor tested negative.” Sam offered, “I can send you the research.”

  “Don’t,” Charlie said. “I believe you.”

  Sam wasn’t sure she quite believed herself anymore. Her druthers was always to apply logic to a problem, but as with the weather, life existed in a delicate dynamical balance between the fields of mass and motion.

  In essence, sometimes shit happened.

  She told Charlie, “I want to go to the funeral home with you, but I don’t think I can stay. I don’t want to see the people who will come. The hypocrites. The sightseers. People who would cross the street when they saw Dad coming and never, ever understood that he was trying to do good.”

  “He didn’t want a service,” Charlie said. “Not a formal one. There’s a visitation, and then he wanted everybody to head over to Shady Ray’s.”

  Sam had forgotten about her father’s favorite bar. “I can’t sit around listening to a bunch of old drunks regaling each other with courthouse stories.”

  “That was one of his favorite things to do.” Charlie leaned against the counter. She looked down at her feet. There was a hole in her sock. Sam could see her big toe sticking out.

  Charlie said, “We talked about his funeral the last time. Before the open-heart surgery. Just me and Dad. That’s when he made all of these plans. He said he wanted people to be happy, to celebrate life. It sounded nice, right? But now that I’m in the middle of it, all I can think is what a stupid asshole he was to assume I would feel like celebrating when he was dead.” She brushed away tears. “I can’t decide if I’m in shock or if what I’m feeling is normal.”

  Sam could offer no expertise. Anton had been a scientist from a culture that did not romanticize death. Sam had stood by the furnace and watched his wooden coffin slide into the flames.

  Charlie said, “I remember going to Gamma’s funeral. That was shock. It was so unexpected, and I was terrified that Zachariah would get out. That he would come back for me. That his family would do something. That you would die. That they would kill you. I don’t think I let go of Lenore’s hand the entire time.”

  Sam had still been in the hospital when her mother was buried. She was certain Charlie had told her about the funeral, just as she was certain that her brain had not been able to retain the information.

  Charlie said, “Dad was good that day. Present. He kept making sure I was okay, catching my eye, interrupting when the wrong person said the wrong thing. It was kind of like you said. Some hypocrites. Some sightseers. But there were other people, like Mrs. Kimble from across the street, and Mr. Edwards from the real estate office. They told these stories, like strange things Gamma had said, or how she had known how to solve a weird problem, and it was really nice to see that other part of her. The adult part of her.”

  “She never fit in.”

  “Every place always has somebody who doesn’t fit in. That’s what makes them fit in.” Charlie looked at the clock. “We should get ready. The faster we can do this, the faster it’ll be over.”

  “I can stay.” Sam sensed her wariness. “For the funeral. I can stay if—”

  “Nothing has changed, Sam.” Charlie did her half-shrug. “I still need to figure out what I’m going to do with my wasted, unhappy life, and you still need to leave.”

  15

  Sam watched Charlie pace around the front lobby of the funeral home. The building was modern on the outside, but the inside was decorated more in the style of a fussy old woman. They seemed to operate with the same efficiency. There were two funerals taking place in the chapels on either side of the lobby. Two identical black hearses awaited their passengers outside. Sam recalled the funeral home’s logo from a billboard she had passed on the way into Pikeville. The ad showed a happy-go-lucky-looking teen beside the ominous words, Slow down! We don’t need the business.

  Charlie passed by Sam, arms swinging, mouth set. She was wearing a black dress and heels. Her hair was pulled back. She had worn no make-up, done nothing to cover her grief. She mumbled under her breath, “Who ever heard of waiting in line at a damn funeral home?”

  Sam knew that her sister was not looking for an answer. They had been asked to wait less than ten minutes ago. Competing music came from behind closed doors on opposite sides. One service seemed to be winding down while the other started. They would soon be overcome with mourners.

  “Unbelievable,” Charlie muttered, pacing past her again.

  Sam felt her phone buzz. She looked down at the screen. Before leaving Charlie’s, she had texted Stanislav, asking him to meet her at the farmhouse. The driver had been well compensated for each trip, but she still read a curt tone in his reply: Will return ASAP.

  The ASAP threw her. Sam was suddenly possessed by the desire to tell him to take his time. She had arrived in Dickerson County wanting nothing more than to leave, but now that she was here, she found herself overcome by inertia.

  Or perhaps obstinance was a better choice of word.

  The more Charlie told her to leave, the more rooted Sam felt to this cursed place.

  A side door opened. Sam had assumed the room was a closet, but the older gentleman in a suit and tie came out drying his hands on a paper towel. He leaned back in and threw the towel in the trash.

  “Edgar Graham.” He shook Sam’s hand first, then Charlie’s. “I’m sorry that we kept you waiting.”

  Charlie said, “We’ve been here almost twenty minutes.”

  “Again, my apologies.” Edgar indicated the hall. “Ladies, this way, please.”

  Sam took the lead. Her leg was cooperating today, just a tinge of pain reminding her that the détente was likely temporary. She heard C
harlie muttering behind her, but the words were too low to make out.

  Edgar said, “Your husband dropped by with the requested attire this morning.”

  “Ben?” Charlie sounded surprised.

  “Through here.” Edgar stepped ahead of them so that he could hold open the door. The sign said BEREAVEMENT COUNSELING. There were four club chairs, a coffee table, and boxes of Kleenex discreetly placed behind potted plants around the room.

  Charlie glared at the sign on the door. Sam could feel a flinty heat coming off of her sister. Usually, they fed off each other, whatever emotion Charlie was feeling becoming amplified inside of Sam. Now, Charlie’s panic, her anger, served to make Sam calmer.

  This was what she was here for. She could not solve Charlie’s problems, but right now, in this moment, she could give her sister what she needed.

  Edgar said, “You can make yourself comfortable in here. We’ve got a full house today. I’m sorry we weren’t expecting you.”

  Charlie asked, “You weren’t expecting us for our father’s funeral?”

  “Charlie,” Sam said, trying to rein her in. “We came unannounced. The funeral doesn’t start for another two hours.”

  Edgar offered, “We generally open visitation an hour before the service.”

  “We’re not having a service.” Charlie asked, “Whose funeral is in the other chapel? Is it Mr. Pinkman?”

  “No, ma’am.” Edgar had stopped smiling, but he appeared unruffled. “Douglas Pinkman’s service is scheduled for tomorrow. We have Lucy Alexander the following day.”

  Sam felt unexpectedly relieved. She had been so focused on Rusty that she had not remembered that there were two more bodies that would require burial.

  Edgar indicated a chair to Sam, but she did not sit. He said, “Currently, your father is downstairs. When the service in our Memory Chapel is completed, we’ll bring him upstairs and place him on the podium at the front of the room. I want to assure you that—”

  “I want to see him now,” Charlie said.

  “He’s not prepared.”

  “Did he forget to study for a test?”

  Sam rested her hand on Charlie’s shoulder.

  Edgar said, “I apologize that my meaning was unclear.” He kept his hands on the back of the chair, his preternatural coolness intact. He explained, “Your father has been placed in the casket that he chose, but we need to move him to the podium, set up the flowers, prepare the room. You want the first time to see him to be—”

  “That’s not necessary.” Sam squeezed Charlie’s shoulder to keep her silent. She knew what her sister was thinking—Don’t tell me what I want. She said, “I’m sure you’ve got something lovely planned, but we’d like to see him now.”

  Edgar gave a smooth nod. “Of course, ladies. Of course. Please allow me a moment.”

  Charlie didn’t wait for the door to close behind him. “What a condescending prick.”

  “Charlie—”

  “The worst thing you could say right now is that I sound like Mother. Jesus.” She pulled at the neck of her dress. “It feels like it’s a hundred degrees in here.”

  “Charlie, this is grief. You want to control things because you feel out of control.” Sam worked to take the lecture out of her tone. “You need to learn how to deal with this because what you are feeling is not going to stop after today.”

  “You need,” Charlie repeated. She took a tissue from the box beside the chair. She mopped sweat from her brow. “You’d think with all of these dead people, they’d keep the air down low.” She paced the small room. She kept moving her hands, shaking her head, as if she was having some kind of private conversation with herself.

  Sam sat in the chair. This was her chickens coming home to roost, watching her sister’s manic, frantic energy manifest itself in rage. Charlie was right that she sounded like their mother. Gamma had always struck out when she felt threatened, the same way that Sam had, the same way that Charlie was doing now.

  Sam offered, “I have some Valium in my purse.”

  “You should take it.”

  Sam tried again, “Where’s Lenore?”

  “So she can calm me down?” Charlie walked over to the window. She bent open the metal blinds to look out at the parking lot. “She won’t come to this. She’d want to kill everybody here. What do you use on your neck?”

  Sam touched her fingers to her neck. “What?”

  “I remember Gamma’s neck was getting crepey. Like, the skin was starting to wrinkle. Even though she was only three years older than I am now.”

  Sam did not know what to do but carry on the conversation. “She was out in the sun all of the time. She never used sunscreen. None of her generation did.”

  “Don’t you worry about it? I mean, you’re fine now, but—” Charlie looked in the mirror by the window. She pulled at the skin of her neck. “I put lotion on it every night, but I think I need to get a cream.”

  Sam opened her purse. The first thing she saw was the note she had given Rusty. The odor of cigarette smoke lingered on the paper. Sam resisted doing something melodramatic, like holding the note to her face so she could remember what her father smelled like. She found her hand cream beside Ben’s USB drive. “Here.”

  Charlie looked at the label. “What’s this?”

  “It’s what I use.”

  “But it says ‘for hands.’”

  “We can Google something.” Sam reached for her phone. “What do you think?”

  “I think …” Charlie took a short breath. “I think I’m losing my shit.”

  “It’s more likely you’re having a panic attack.”

  “I’m not panicking,” Charlie said, but the tremble in her voice indicated otherwise. “I feel dizzy. Shaky. I might throw up. Is that a panic attack?”

  “Yes.” Sam helped her sit down in the chair. “Take some deep breaths.”

  “Jesus.” She put her head down between her knees. “Oh, Jesus.”

  Sam rubbed her sister’s back. She tried to think of something that would take away the pain, but grief defied logic.

  “I didn’t believe he would die.” Charlie grabbed her hair in her hands. “I mean, I knew it would happen, but I didn’t think it would. Like, the opposite of when you buy a lottery ticket. You’re saying, ‘Of course I’m not going to win,’ but then you actually do think you might win, because why else would you buy the damn ticket?”

  Sam kept rubbing her back.

  “I know I still have Lenore, but Dad was—” Charlie sat up. She took a jittery breath. “I always knew that, no matter what, if I had a problem, I could take it to him and he wouldn’t judge me, and he would make a joke about it so it didn’t hurt so much and then we would figure out how to solve it together.” She covered her face with her hands. “I hate him for not taking care of himself. And I love him for living his life on his own terms.”

  Sam was familiar with both sensations.

  “I didn’t know that Ben brought his clothes.” She turned to Sam, alarmed. “What if he asked to be dressed up like a clown?”

  “Charlie, don’t be silly. You know he would’ve chosen something from the Renaissance.”

  The door opened. Charlie stood up.

  Edgar said, “Our Memory Chapel is clearing out. If you would give me another moment, I could place your father in a more natural setting.”

  “He’s dead,” Charlie said. “None of this is natural.”

  “Very well.” Edgar tucked down his chin. “We’ve temporarily placed him in our showroom. I’ve put out two chairs for your comfort and reflection.”

  “Thank you.” Sam turned to Charlie, expecting her to complain about the chairs or make a sharp comment about reflection. Instead, she found her sister crying.

  “I’m here,” Sam said, though she did not know if that was a comfort.

  Charlie bit her lip. Her hands were still clenched into fists. She was trembling.

  Sam peeled open Charlie’s fingers and held on to her hand.
br />   She nodded to Edgar.

  He walked to the other side of the small room. Sam had not noticed a discreet door built into the wood paneling. He turned the latch, and she saw the brightly lit showroom.

  Charlie would not move on her own, so Sam gently led her toward the door. Though Edgar had called this the showroom, Sam had not been expecting to find an actual showroom. Shiny caskets painted in dark earth tones lined the walls. They were tilted at a fifteen-degree angle, their lids opened to display the silk liners. Spotlights illuminated silver and gold handles. An assortment of pillows was in a spinning rack. Sam wondered if mourners checked the softness before making their decision.

  Charlie was unsteady on her high heels. “Is this what it was like when your—”

  “No,” Sam said. “Anton was cremated. They put him in a pine box.”

  “Why didn’t Daddy do that?” Charlie looked down at a jet-black display casket with black satin lining. “I feel like we’re in a Shirley Jackson story.”

  Sam turned, remembering Edgar. She mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

  He bowed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Sam looked back at Charlie. She had come to a standstill. All of her bluster was gone. She was staring at the front of the room. Two folding chairs draped in pastel blue satin covers. A white casket with gold handles on a stainless steel cart with big, black wheels. The lid was open. Rusty’s head was tilted up on a pillow. Sam could see the peppered gray of his hair, the tip of his nose, and a flash of bright blue from his suit.

  Charlie said, “That’s Dad.”

  Sam reached for her sister’s hand again, but Charlie was already moving toward their father. Her deliberate stride tapered off quickly. She stuttered to a stop. Her hand went to her mouth. Her shoulders began to shake.

  She told Sam, “It’s not him.”

  Sam understood what she meant. This was clearly their father, but just as clearly it was not. Rusty’s cheeks were too red. His wild eyebrows had been tamed. His hair, normally sticking up in every direction, was combed into something resembling a pompadour.