Mr. Eddington appeared.
"I’ll have that cleaned up immediately," he said. "Let me help you."
He led Clendon by the arm into a dim, cool room with the black leather chairs, and handed Clendon a cold, wet towel which he wrapped around his head.
"I never eat before a funeral," Mr. Eddington said.
After Clendon caught his breath and cleaned himself off, he returned to the chapel and sat down next to Shelley. Preacher Flood paused and glanced at him.
"I must finally bring the good news," the preacher said. "The Bible says that 'whosoever believeth in Him shall have everlasting life.'"
He stared at Clendon. Mrs. Boyd had stopped her crying and it was quiet. The preacher waited a few more seconds.
"Brooks was saved," he said. "Let us give thanks to Almighty God."
Clendon felt himself starting to giggle. He had suddenly remembered a story Brooks had told him in college. Clendon’s body began to shake and his mouth muscles quivered as he fought hard to control himself. He felt himself starting to break into laughter and he leaned over to hide his face.
When Brooks was playing his senior year of high school football, his team had been crushed in the state playoffs 40-6 by its blood rival. During the game, Brooks’s coach had turned bright red with rage. Afterwards, he had screamed at the team in the silent locker room that "we have some young men here who were trying to jew down the price." Precisely as the coach said the word "price," there was a loud thunk and a groan. Brooks had fainted and hit his head on a locker room bench.
Shelley patted Clendon on the back as Preacher Flood was stepping down from the rostrum. The preacher looked sweaty and his face was red. Clendon tried to take deep breaths to stop himself.
Mr. Eddington and an assistant opened the casket while the organist played "When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder." People from the back rows came up and viewed the body. They paused, but not too long, and all filed out. D. C. Lyman looked but didn’t pause. Shelley’s father was also red in the face and sweaty. He glanced at Shelley as she nodded for him to go up with her mother. They looked quickly at Brooks and shuffled out. Then Mrs. Boyd crept forward and hovered over her son. Shelley sighed and put her head on Clendon’s shoulder and her arm around his neck. She was sweating.
Brooks’s mother wept and mumbled "Brooks" and "Jesus" over and over while Mr. Boyd held her and said, "It’s all right, mama, he’s in heaven." After five minutes, Mr. Boyd dragged her out.
Now left alone, Shelley and Clendon edged forward, Shelley clutching her purse.
"Didn’t Brooks have a brother?" Clendon asked.
"Yeah. Earl. Told me one time he hated funerals and would never go to one."
Brooks was pink over gray with sewed lips and shut eyes and he had his new suit on. Shelley closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she reopened them, she bent over him and gave him a caress on the cheek and a peck on the lips.
"You bastard."
She removed her wedding band and placed it on Brooks’s little finger, the only finger it would fit. She took out a kleenex and wiped her mouth.
"Goddamn, his lips were cold." She turned to Clendon. "I want a moment alone."
"Okay," Clendon said and walked out to wait by the limousine
* * *
The air conditioning in the limousine revived them. Shelley leaned against Clendon. Their limousine followed the hearse, while a second limousine with the Boyds in it followed them. Behind the limos, Mr. Symmes drove his wife in Shelley’s Volvo. All of the vehicles in the procession had a day-glo green sticker on their back windshields that said FUNERAL in black letters.
A motorcycle cop led them down through Santa Monica Canyon and up onto San Vicente. It reminded Clendon of his going to Adolfo’s in the BMW. What was Adolfo doing right now? Did he shoot Brooks, escape to Mexico, and now sit laughing in a Tijuana cantina?
It took forty minutes to reach the cemetery, which was across the road from the Fox Hills mall. The cemetery’s grounds were bright green against a brown-yellow hill.
"I’m thirsty," Shelley said.
The hearse stopped near a black canvas tent roof that covered the open grave. Folding chairs sat unfolded along one side of it. Astroturf covered the ground around the grave site. Half-hidden in a stand of eucalyptus trees sat the backhoe that would fill the grave after the mourners left.
The sky was clear, a light blue that turned white toward the horizon. When Clendon stepped out of the limousine, the sun shoved hard against his head and back, and he felt thirsty and sick again. He adjusted his sunglasses. What they needed was an ice cold Coca-cola vendor, and he was not there. Clendon thought of Brooks hanging out under the eucalyptus trees in the park. The smell of money was not drifting in the air now.
They were on elevated ground, giving an excellent view of a shopping mall, freeway ramps, and a few miles away, the runways at the airport. Cars drove up close to the grave site in clusters of twos and threes. When all the pallbearers had arrived, they pulled the green casket out of the hearse and carried it over to the bier. Mr. Eddington laid a wreath lay on top of the casket. Everyone gathered around.
It was warm and breezeless under the tent cover. Shelley sat on one of the chairs closest to the head of the casket, Clendon next to her, and the rest of the family on down in a line. D. C. Lyman appeared next to the bier across from them. He was short, about five-six, and stared at Shelley with lustless eyes.
Preacher Flood stepped up to the head of the casket and opened his Bible. "I’ll read the 23rd Psalm." He recited it from memory.
"Preacher, please read the 12th Psalm," Mrs. Boyd said when he had finished. She held her face in her hands and twisted a white handkerchief in her fingers.
"I shall, Mrs. Boyd." He turned a few pages and began: "'Help, Lord; for the godly man ceaseth; for the faithful fail from the children of men. They speak vanity every one with his neighbor: with flattering lips and with a double heart do they speak. The Lord shall cut off all flattering lips-- '"
Clendon’s eyes wandered. There was a man was standing by the parked cars. It was Fred. He wore a better jacket than before. His face had a blank look.
When Preacher Flood finished, Shelley said, "Please read Psalm 103, verses eight through ten."
"Why, surely, Mrs. Boyd." The preacher leafed through the pages. "'The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy. He will not always chide; neither will he keep his anger for ever. He hath not dealt with us after our sins; nor rewarded us according to our iniquities.'"
"Thank you, preacher," Shelley said.
Clendon’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his head felt swimmy. He craved a glass of ice water. Preacher Flood said a long, rambling prayer, full of being saved and avoiding damnation, while Clendon thought about lying naked in a cool bed with Shelley. He squeezed her shoulders. Her neck was slick with sweat. She reached up and touched his hand.
"Amen," the preacher said, and Brooks’s mother echoed him.
The preacher worked his way down the line, Shelley first. He leaned over and took her hand.
"Your husband is with God today."
"We all are, preacher."
He turned up his mouth in a tight smile. "Yes, you’re right, Shelley." He took her hand in both of his. "And we all have the comfort of Jesus."
"He’s our friend."
The preacher stared at her a moment, a look of lust passing through his eyes. He eased her hand down and let go. Then he looked at Clendon and extended his hand.
"My sympathies," he said.
Clendon limply shook the preacher’s ice cold hand. The preacher moved on down the line. Mrs. Boyd started bawling. Shelley stood and Clendon took her arm.
"I’m feeling faint," she said.
Mr. Eddington came over and helped her to the limousine.
"We could use something cold to drink now," Clendon said. "We’ve both had enough of t
his funeral shit."
"Coke or 7-Up?"
Mr. Eddington opened the trunk of the limousine and reached inside. There was an ice chest packed with cans of soda pop.
"Gets hot out here sometimes," Mr. Eddington said, and handed them two chilled cans of Coke.
Shelley and Clendon slid into the limo, cracked open their cans, and guzzled. He took off his coat and loosened his tie, but left his sunglasses on. His shirt stuck to his back. Mr. Eddington started the engine and ran the air conditioner.
Shelley’s face was bleached white.
"I don’t feel good," she said.
Mr. Eddington reopened the trunk and took out a handful of ice. He opened the back door next to Shelley.
"Looks like you may be getting heat exhaustion, Mrs. Boyd. Hold this ice to your forehead and lie down."
"I’m so hot I’m getting stomach cramps."
Clendon folded up his coat.
"Lie down, Shelley, and put this under your head."
She stretched out on the back seat and accepted the folded coat.
"I’m so hot," she said.
Mr. Eddington gave her the ice and she held it in her hand.
"How can you stand those hot panty hose?”
"I can’t, Clendon, take them off."
"No, we’ll close the door and you can have some privacy and take them off yourself."
"But how can I hold this ice to my forehead and take my panty hose off at the same time?"
"We’ll get you some more ice in a minute."
"I can hardly move, Clendon, I feel light-headed."
Clendon grabbed the ice, clambered in the back seat, and closed the door. Mr. Eddington stood outside, looking away.
"I’m putting this ice on your head. It’ll make you jump."
"Make me jump."
"Just take your hose off."
First she flicked her shoes off with her feet, then she lifted up her dress and reached under it and pulled down her panty hose. She dropped the hose on the floor.
"Shelley—"
"What?"
"Shelley-- Just relax."
She left her dress up, high above her knees. Clendon held the ice to her head until his hands ached with cold, then went numb. She had put on the magnolia scent that made Clendon want to nuzzle her neck. She closed her eyes and breathed quickly, then fanned herself with her dress. He wanted to start licking her bare, tanned legs.
He gazed out the tinted window. Fred still stood out there. Clendon looked farther across the cemetery and saw the red-faced Asp, dressed in a business suit as he skulked towards the backhoe and the cover of the eucalyptus trees, hands in his pants pockets.
The group under the tent broke up. D. C. Lyman climbed in a brown Jaguar parked a few cars from where Fred stood, and drove away. Clendon watched Fred watch Lyman without watching him, but he couldn’t tell if Lyman knew Fred or noticed him.
Shelley moved her legs. She reached up and rubbed the water from the melting ice across her cheeks and face.
"I don’t feel so faint any more."
* * *
It was cool and dim inside Shelley’s house. She changed into cooler clothes, a cotton blouse and brushed denims, and her face looked pinker. Mr. Eddington gave orders to the catering staff. They had brought in a long dining table and chairs and had lunch set up. The fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, salad, and hot biscuits lay spread across the table.
The parents, Shelley, Clendon, and Preacher Flood gathered around. The preacher sat at the head of the table, Mr. Symmes on his left, Shelley next to him, Clendon next to Shelley. Shelley’s father smelled like a distillery and his face was still red. Preacher Flood tried to act like he didn’t smell anything as he said grace. They passed around the food. It felt good to eat.
Mr. Boyd picked at his plate, then said, "You know, preacher, I had the funniest experience on the way into the cemetery."
"What was that, Mr. Boyd?"
"Well, sir, as we were following the hearse in, I would swear I saw Brooks himself sitting on the rear bumper, waving and smiling at me, just as alive as you or I."
Preacher Flood stared at Mr. Boyd and kept chewing his chicken.
"I. . . I was afraid to say anything to anybody, but I felt I should."
"I’m glad you did, Mr. Boyd," Shelley said. "Were you frightened?"
"Oh, no, no, I felt at peace."
"God granted you a miracle today," the preacher said.
"Shelley, dear," Mrs. Boyd said, “could we have a couple of Brooks’s things—you know—like the Civil War chess set we gave him for Christmas?"
"Make a list, Mrs. Boyd, and I’ll send you whatever you want when I go through his things."
"Could we see them before we leave, dear?"
Shelley reached under the table and struck Clendon’s thigh with her fist.
"Preacher, where did you study for the ministry?" Mr. Symmes asked.
"I went to Southwestern Bible College."
"Do they teach the pre-trib or post-trib rapture there? Are you free will or strict predestination?"
"Perhaps after lunch we could discuss theology if you are so interested. What is your denomination, sir? Have you let Jesus into your heart?"
"I am a motherfucking atheist."
"Dad!"
"I am a screaming motherfucking atheist."
Everybody stopped eating.
"Dad!"
"There’s still time to let Jesus into your heart, Mr. Symmes."
"You fucking Baptists piss me off."
"Dad, I think you should get up from the table and leave the room."
"I would never join your church. There isn’t any love in it. It’s all cruelty and damnation."
"Mr. Symmes, we’ve all had a hard day," Preacher Flood said. "If you’re not feeling well—"
"I feel well enough to piss on you and your religion."
"Dad, come on."
Shelley grabbed her father around the neck and began pulling. The smell of alcohol on him was very strong.
"Why couldn’t you say something nice about Brooks, for Christ sakes? My daughter’s husband is dead. There’s not a damn thing you can do about it, no matter how much you quote the Bible and foam at the mouth."
"Dad! Would you shut up?"
"I want him to say something nice about Brooks."
"As I said at the service, Brooks was saved. He was a fine man and a good husband, Mr. Symmes."
"Aw, hell, you didn’t mean it, preacher."
"Dad, let’s go-- "
Shelley stood up.
"You know that part in the Old Testament where the Hebrews piss on the heathens from the wall of the Temple?"
"That’s not exactly what happened—"
"It’s about time somebody pissed on you."
"You should beg God for forgiveness, Mr. Symmes."
Mr. Eddington came over.
"Come on, Mr. Symmes, let’s take a walk outside and get some fresh air."
Shelley’s father stood up, unsteady, facing the preacher. Shelley tried to pull him back down.
"Let go, Shelley."
She looked at Clendon, her face twisted, her eyes shiny. Her father reached for his crotch and pulled his zipper down. Shelley tried to choke him from behind. Clendon started to get up. Mr. Eddington froze when the splattering sound started against the table and Preacher Flood’s jacket. Mrs. Boyd screamed.
The preacher shoved back and yelled. Mr. Symmes started laughing. Clendon could smell the urine and glimpsed the arc of it. Mr. Symmes tried to follow the preacher’s retreat.
"Stop it!"
Shelley hit the side of her father’s head as hard as she could with her right fist. He stumbled as she lashed out again. He slipped to the floor landed on his back, and cracked his head against the Spanish tile floor. He dribbled on his pants.
Clendon jumped on him and held his arms pinned across his chest. Mr. Eddington and Shelley grabbed his legs and h
eld them. He thrashed for a few moments, then he calmed, dead drunk. It became quiet except for his heavy breathing and the muffled sobbing from Shelley’s mother. It smelled like the men’s room at a gas station.
"I want you out of my house!"
"All right, Shelley."
"I’ll pay you extra if you clean this asshole up and take him to the airport and put him on the next plane to hell," Shelley said to Mr. Eddington.
"No problem."
"We should carry him out and dump him in the garbage," Shelley said.
Preacher Flood removed his jacket, held it at arm’s length, and peered over them.
"Mr. Symmes, I’ll pray for your soul tonight. You’re welcome to come by the church any time."
* * *
By sundown they were gone. Shelley sat on the velour couch in the dark. Clendon sat in a recliner. They didn’t move or say anything for over an hour.
"Did you notice no one said anything," Clendon said.
"About what?"
"You and me."
"Now you know why I’m fucked up."
"You’ve got guts, Shelley."
"I’m very fucked up. You just don’t know it yet."
"Let’s get out of L.A."
"Could you come over here and hold me, Clendon?"
Shelley’s breath was a warm breeze across his neck. Her hair smelled like strawberries.
"We can’t," she said.
"Why not?"
"Do you have any money?"
"No."
"I don’t either."
"You said you were going to make a hundred grand this year."
"I have no money now. That check I wrote to the funeral home was all I had."
"Don’t you bill your clients? Don’t you have some receivables?"
"Clients pay when services are performed. No credit, no billing."
"You have credit cards."
"They’re all at the limit. Your new suit did me in. I couldn’t put a bus ticket to Anaheim on my credit cards now."
"Didn’t Brooks have life insurance?"
"Clendon, do you? The only way we’re going to get out of this smog pit is to be the first people to find that damned briefcase."
"Is that why you lied to the police?"