Final Stroke (18 page)

“I never seen so many flowers,” said the younger of the two funeral home workers.

“That’s because you haven’t worked here as long as me,” said the older worker. “I was here when old man Gianetti had his funeral. There were twice as many flowers then. We had to borrow Slone’s flower car ‘cause ours didn’t have enough room.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Must be over twenty years. Man, time sure flies. Things were different back then. I remember they had the casket closed because of all the bullets in his head. I saw the body downstairs. His head looked like a spaghetti strainer. The irony of it was everyone knew the guy who put all those holes in his head was probably at the funeral.”

“Yeah, I heard about it. I think I was in grade school at the time.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

“It was something about drugs, wasn’t it? Maybe South Ameri
cans got him.”

“I doubt it. With these people everything’s a family affair. And I don’t mean family like sons and daughters. Even though she probably had nothing to do with what her husband did for a living, they’ll come to her funeral because of her connection to him.”

“Yeah, I was watchin’ last night at the wake. You could tell who was important by the number of soldiers lined up behind him. Espe
cially that Lamberti guy.”

“He’s the old lady’s nephew. I’ve seen him here with the boss lots of times over the years when a vet’s gone down. Of course those times he didn’t have such a big entourage. I guess he had to be backed up last night because there were so many others in his line of business here. Couldn’t afford to take any chances.”

“Is it true he always pays for the flag and banner when it’s a vet?”

“I guess so. He also pays for the plots.”

“I thought vets got free ones.”

“Yeah, because Lamberti paid the cemetery for the whole damn grove. At Resurrection, the cheap grove out by the highway is covered by contributions, but at Chapel Grove, the vets get laid to rest in prime plots up on the hill in the oak grove.”

“In his own way, Lamberti must be a good guy.”

“I wouldn’t want to cross the guy. I don’t even feel comfortable talking about him.”

“You see that one crony of his?”

“Which one?”

“That younger guy. His name’s Dino. I know him from high school. His old man got out of the rackets, but Dino jumped back
into it even though the old man tried like hell to keep him out. One thing I remember about Dino was that he never liked girls too much, if you know what I mean. We all thought he’d end up doin’ what we’re doin’.”

“In the funeral business?”

“No, arranging flowers. When I saw Dino here last night, it made me wonder about Max Lamberti’s relationship to the guy and whether there’s a Mrs. Lamberti. Made me wonder whether Lamberti is like the old lady’s son but puts on a good show of bein’ a tough guy.”

“I don’t think so, but that’s none of our business.”

“I hope her son doesn’t have too many of his friends here during the funeral.”

“Why?”

“It’ll be uncomfortable seeing these guys huggin’ one another the way they did last night. For a while there I wondered whether they were just using the occasion as an excuse to dry-hump one another in public.”

“I don’t think you should be talkin’ like that in here.”

“Nobody’ll hear. The doors are still locked and the boss is in with those black folks.”

“It doesn’t matter. I just don’t think you should talk about people who come here to pay their respects.”

“What’s wrong? You think the place is bugged?”

“No, I don’t think the place is bugged. But I do think there are things that shouldn’t be said unless you’re at home behind locked doors.”

“Well, there sure are a lot of fuckin’ flowers.”

“Yes, there sure are.”

For a moment Steve imagined he and Jan were riding in a horse-drawn Gypsy caravan and in the back of the caravan someone was trying desperately to play a violin and having a difficult time because of the rough ride. It was a strange feeling, like he was back there instead of up here in the front seat next to Jan. He wanted to tell this to Jan. He also wanted to tell her she looked great in her black dress and gold hoop earrings glittering in the sun. But then the car changed direc
tion and Jan’s keys, swinging back and forth where they hung from the steering column, drew his attention.

Something about keys. Marjorie saying something about the keys to the kingdom while speaking about her family. When Marjorie spoke of the keys she became confused, not the usual confusion, but a melancholy confusion, a turning inward. Yes, there was something about keys. She had said it more than once. And now he recalled other phrases Marjorie had gotten hung up on during her melancholy periods. She’d say, “Dead issue,” and wave her hand as if to say she did not want to talk anymore about it. Or she’d say, “Dead seed.” Or she’d say, “Carter smarter,” whatever that meant. Sometimes she’d even repeat the name “Chernobyl” again and again. One time, after saying these things, she got hung up on the two phrases, “Fly in the ointment” and “Max the fly.” That was in speech therapy the time Georgiana managed to get from Marjorie that “Max the fly” was the title of a children’s book she’d read to her son when he was little, and “Fly in the ointment” referred to the son of her dead sister, the nephew she considered one of the “Black sheep” in her family.

Steve looked away from the keys hanging from the ignition and looked out at the road. Roads. Something about roads. Yes, Marjorie had this litany she’d go through. Georgiana had figured it out one day in rehab. Georgiana had gotten out a road atlas and figured out that
a bunch of letters and numbers Marjorie recited actually consisted of the names of road routes in the road atlas.

Steve felt confused by this. A bunch of road routes. What good was that? He looked for something in the car on which to focus his attention. He stared at the cell phone in its holder between the seats. Then he turned toward Jan.

“Black dress,” he said.

“You like it?” asked Jan.

“No … Yes.”

“Okay, you like it, but that’s not what you meant to say.”

“Right. Black something other. Animal.”

“Black bird?”

“No. Four shoes.”

“Oh, four feet. Black cat?”

He felt the frustration bubbling up inside. At least that’s the way one of his first speech therapists described the frustration of not being able to come up with a word. He had to force the frustration back down and take his time because Jan was helping, and with her help the word would eventually surface and be there plain as day, right side out and right side up, and he’d be unable to figure out how he could have gotten it twisted around.

“No, not black cat.”

“Something you’d find on a farm?”

“Yes.”

“Something you can eat?”

“Yes.”

“It wouldn’t be a black cow, would it?”

“No.”

“Stop me when I hit it.”

He held her shoulder with his left hand.

“Pig. Goat. Chicken … No, you said four legs. Calf. Horse … No, I guess not. Lamb …”

He squeezed her shoulder.

“Black lamb?”

“Again.”

“Sheep? Black sheep?”

He laughed. “Got it.”

“Okay,” said Jan. “Let me speculate. We’re driving to a funeral and you’re thinking about black sheep. At a funeral families come to
gether and the term black sheep is used to refer to a family member. Is that it?”

He laughed again. “Wow.”

Jan smiled a great big smile. “Thank you for the compliment.”

“You’re welcome.”

She reached over and touched his thigh. “Take your time. I know it’ll be hard trying to get anything across to me at the funeral with all the people and distractions. I’ll keep my eyes open and remem
ber about black sheep. Maybe we’ll see one. Keep it all in your head. Then you and I can talk about it afterward when we’re alone.”

Steve leaned close, put his arm around her, and stared at her gor
geous profile while she drove.

Steve saw the hood at the funeral home as Jan pushed his wheelchair back from the front where they had viewed Marjorie’s body and given their condolences to several men and women who stood at the front. At one point he thought of a wedding reception line and imagined tell ing this to Marjorie in rehab and further imagined Marjorie leaping out of the casket and saying she’s the bride and everyone has to kiss
her, especially this guy in the wheelchair. If she could have done this, it would have been like Marjorie to do it because she enjoyed a good laugh. As he bit his lip to keep from laughing, he saw the hood.

He saw the hood again in church and wondered if the hood would get up and say something when the priest finished his eulogy and asked if anyone else wanted to say something. But the hood did not get up. Two men in their thirties or forties got up and spoke briefly. One, a slight man with very short thinning hair, mentioned “Mom,” and said, “She always knew kindness and understanding, not only to me, but also to those who sometimes did not deserve it. She loved na
ture. She always said the right thing, even after her stroke, if one sim
ply took time to listen. I … I’ll always love her.” The other man was larger, had thick black hair and mustache, mentioned “Aunt Marge,” and said, “She was the best aunt a kid could have. I’ll miss her a lot because of so many things she did for me that I can’t even count.” The frail-looking son wept and had difficulty finishing his statement. The burly-looking nephew took out a handkerchief with a flourish and wiped at his eyes at the conclusion of his statement.

He saw the hood again at the cemetery. The hood was one of a group of men there without the accompaniment of women or chil
dren, a group of men who seemed to answer to the burly nephew who had spoken in church. Steve could tell by the way they whispered to one another, and the way they stood at overly-dignified attention, and the way they scanned the crowd and formed a barrier around the nephew, that they were there to protect the nephew and perhaps watch those who attended the funeral and report back later.

The reason Steve recognized the hood was because he had a recol
lection of having had this man’s face very close to his, and of him hold
ing his semi-automatic nicknamed Attila pointed at this man. Sud
denly he was immersed in detail and the memory became vivid …

The smell of celery. A warehouse with trucks backed in. Stacks of ventilated wooden crates and cardboard boxes. Fresh vegetables. He’s there to ask questions the way Joe Friday would ask questions. He asks a kid hauling crates of lettuce on a two-wheeler about someone. Sud
denly the guy he’s looking for appears and lets go with a head of lettuce from behind a waist-high stack of crates. He chases the guy around crates, through the warehouse, and up to a backroom door that slams in his face. When he tries the door it is locked.

A clattering behind him. He turns. The kid has dropped his two-wheeler, spilling crates of lettuce across the floor. The kid grabs him from behind. A tough kid, bone and muscle, arm around his neck. He tries to spin away but the kid hangs on.