Happily Ever After? (12 page)

“Are you sure Dad wanted a wake?” I asked my mother. I was still incredulous.

My mother pulled open the kitchen cabinet, the one where my parents had kept their important papers, passports, their credit
cards wrapped in rubber bands, a cookie jar of cash. “It’s all in here.” She handed me a white envelope. “Funeral Arrangements”
was written in my father’s handwriting.

I opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of yellow legal paper. “When I pass,” he had written, “please contact my great-aunt
Finola and great-uncle Timothy
in Boston. They will make all the necessary arrangements for a traditional Irish wake.” My father had also written his own
epitaph, and my heart ached to imagine how that must have felt for him, to contemplate and even plan his own gravestone.

“Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.”

The doorbell rang at 11
A.M.
I peeked out the little window in the door. There were two women and a man dressed in black. None looked familiar. I opened
the door. “Can I help you?”

One of the women stepped forward. “Finola Ryan sent us. We’re with the Irish American Fellowship and we’re here to help with
the wake.” She was beefy and strong-looking, an inch taller than me, her long gray hair pulled and twisted into a big bun.
The other woman was younger and equally sturdy, and there was a tall boy, barely out of his teens, with flaming red hair.
Their clothes were worn but clean; the boy’s trousers were crisply pressed and the women seemed to have taken great care in
arranging their hair.

“I’m Rosemary O’Hara. This is Mrs. Feeney, and this is Mr. Kilpatrick,” the woman said, gesturing toward her companions. Each
regarded me with a polite nod and I noticed that they were carrying small satchels. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” the
young man said. “Terribly sorry,” Mrs. Feeney murmured. By then my mother had joined me at the door. “I am sorry for your
loss, Missus,” Mrs. O’Hara said. She extended a hand. “Where is your husband, dear?”

My mother motioned toward the guest room, and asked, “Can I get you some coffee? Or tea?”

“No thank you, Mrs. Ryan. We’re fine. Just point us in the direction of your powder room so we can wash our hands.” As she
spoke, she reached for the cuckoo clock on the wall and removed the battery. “We stop the clocks as a sign of respect,” she
said.

“The bathroom is down the hall, first door on the left,” my mother directed.

Rosemary and the others hustled authoritatively down the corridor. “You are welcome to be part of this,” she called out, “even
if it’s all new to you. It’s a very special time, you know, preparing our loved ones for the hereafter.”

My mother took the cordless phone to the basement to begin notifying family and friends. I stood transfixed as these three
members of the Irish American Fellowship did their work. They carefully undressed my father’s dead body and washed it, dipping
a white washcloth into a small white porcelain basin of water. The young Mr. Kilpatrick used a blue disposable razor to expertly
shave my father’s face while the women quickly cleaned the room using supplies they had brought in their satchels. They lit
candles on the nightstand beside the bed, then they dressed my father in a kind of religious habit, put a crucifix on his
breast, and gingerly positioned a string of rosary beads in his hands. By the time they were done with him, he looked like
a bishop. He no longer resembled my father. Mrs.
O’Hara saw me staring and said, “His Uncle Timothy will recite the rosary at midnight, and again in the morning.”

I didn’t know what to say. I felt as if our house had been conquered by guerrillas.

“I’ll need several sheets,” Mrs. O’Hara told me, blowing a damp tendril of curly hair off her face. “As many as you’ve got
mirrors. Preferably white, but any will do.” I was prepared to offer to buy new ones at Walmart; I didn’t think my mother
had kept up with the laundry. But I found a stack of clean white and pale yellow sheets in the linen closet and handed them
to Mrs. O’Hara. Some of these were hung over the sides of the bed. Others were draped over mirrors.

Mrs. Feeney set a plate of something brown and dried on the dining room table. I found out later that this was snuff.

The doorbell rang and Mrs. O’Hara looked at her watch. It was 2:30
P.M.
“And so it begins,” she said, smiling. “Visitation will last until midnight. Someone must stay with your father at all times.
One of us can spell you if you or your mother needs a break.”

By six the house was filled with family and friends, a whole generation of Boston Ryans I’d never met, including the notorious
Aunt Finola and Uncle Tim. She was thin and tight and humorless. He was her opposite in every way, fat and sloppy and gregarious.
At one point, two grown men I’d never seen before were wrestling on the floor of the living room. Tim explained
that it was a traditional “wake game.” I heard my mother ask them to “play downstairs, please.” I knew she didn’t think it
was appropriate for grown men to play games at such a somber occasion. Finola stepped forward, scowling. “It’s traditional
to play games at a wake,” she said, and then she seemed to pull back in preparation for a strike, the way you pull an arrow
back in the bow before letting it fly. “If you couldn’t let your husband lead a good Irish life while he was alive, at least
let him have it in death,” she said sharply. “He’s back in the fold now, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

The room was suddenly silent as my mother seemed to shrink into herself. She bowed her head and retreated to the kitchen.
My sisters and I rushed in after her. I turned around to glare at Finola, but she was laughing with another relative, apparently
oblivious to the pain her tongue-lashing had caused my mother. I vaguely knew that my father had been estranged from his parents
and sister since the day he announced that he would marry my mother. She wasn’t Irish. She wasn’t religious. In fact, she
wasn’t much of anything, except a pariah. Today I learned that there was an outright campaign to end my parents’ engagement.
The effort was led by Finola herself. And when Dad’s father died of a heart attack, Finola tormented my father for months,
insisting that it was my father who killed him by choosing my mother for his bride.

My mother pulled herself together and went back to
mingle among her guests. It was strange to see her so lively and, actually, happy. But why wouldn’t she be? My father was
at rest, and the house was filled with life, with food and flowers, with family and good friends, neighbors. And she was the
center of attention. For a moment, she could forget that her husband and life companion, her best friend and soul mate, was
gone forever. Eventually, the house will be empty again, the flowers will have wilted, the food will be eaten, and she will
be alone. She is still relatively attractive. I wonder if she will want to date eventually.

I don’t want to think about that now.

Mom came into the kitchen. “Guess who has stopped by?”

“Who?”

“Your Detective Avila.”

I should have been happier to hear this. Michael walked in with a big bottle of whiskey. I took it from him and set it with
the others.

“Valerie, I’m so sorry.” He hugged me and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

I asked him to sit with me on the porch and he complied, despite the fact that the air was muggy. He looked so handsome in
his dark blue suit.

“Can I ask you something?” I started.

He looked apprehensive. “Sure, I guess.”

“Why haven’t you married?” I blurted out.

His eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t expected the question, obviously. “Well, first I was all involved in police -
academy and then my job, then Mom got sick and Dad really needed me, and my brother is a good-for-nothing bum so I couldn’t
rely on him to help—” Michael smiled. “Too much information?”

“Not at all.” At this point I felt I could ask him anything. “So, you’re not gay?”

“Are you kidding? Do I seem gay to you?”

I wanted to say, If you’re not gay, why haven’t you tried to get me into bed yet? How come you never use your tongue when
you kiss me? But just then my mother walked in. “Oh, there you are!” She winked at Michael. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my
mother wink before. “Honey, would you help me inside for a minute? I need a big strong man to help me with something.”

Michael sprung to his feet. “At your service.” He looked at me. “We’ll continue our discussion later, okay?”

I watched Michael helping my mother in the kitchen, talking with family and friends, charming my sisters and their stodgy
husbands. He really did fit right in. My sister Teresa gave me a wink and a thumbsup sign behind his back. He was perfect.

So why wasn’t I madly in love?

My father’s burial was at noon the next day, and by 8
P.M.
the house was finally emptied of visitors. With Finola and Tim gone, we decided to remove the sheets from the mirrors, restart
all the clocks, restore the guest room.

Of course, our family gatherings wouldn’t be complete without at least one unpleasant confrontation. “I hear you’ve already
got Dad’s camera,” Julia said, accusingly. “Don’t you have enough money to buy Pete fifty new cameras?”

“Actually, I probably have enough money to buy a camera factory, Julia, but this wasn’t my idea. Dad wanted Pete to have it.”

“Oh really? I find that hard to believe.”

“Listen. If it were up to me, you could have the damn camera and anything else you want to take from Dad’s closet, but he
was very clear about this. He said he wanted Pete to have the camera. I’m sorry if that’s a problem for you.”

“I’ll bet you are.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing.” She stretched a sheet of Saran Wrap over a plate of brownies. “Miss High and Mighty,” she spat out. “All of
a sudden you’ve got all this money and you think you’re the boss and it’s not even your money.”

“Listen. Julia. We’re all really strung out now. Dad’s gone, it’s stressful for everyone. Please. Let’s pull together, at
least for Mom’s sake.”

“Don’t play therapist with me.”

I know that families can get ugly when it comes to divvying up a dead person’s belongings, but I never thought that would
happen in my family. I realized that Julia had a whole storehouse of resentment against me
for all sorts of injustices. For being the baby in the family. For winning my father’s affection. For having a relatively
compliant child while her own kids have been diagnosed with ADHD.

“Whatever you say, Julia. Let me know when you’re ready to talk like two adults.”

But that time never came. Julia and her family packed up the van and left before dinner. I haven’t heard from her since.

’Til next time,

V

I just received the oddest e-mail from the neighbor behind my house. At first I wondered where he had gotten my e-mail address,
and then I remembered that Lynette had put together a phone and e-mail directory for our subdivision, in the deluded hope
that it would help create a sense of community. Here’s what he sent me:

Valerie Ryan:

Your sycamore trees are planted on my property line. You must move these trees at once or I will have no choice but to cut
them down.

Bill Stropp

I can’t believe this! Those trees are as tall as apartment buildings. I can’t possibly move them, and it would be obscene
to cut them down, especially in a subdivision where full-grown trees are as rare as all-brick homes. I don’t know much about
this guy. He owns a chain of tire stores. I heard that his wife left him for a Goodyear rep, moved to Arizona with the kids.
Lives alone in the house. House is for sale. I immediately wrote back, in my most delicately diplomatic style:

Dear Bill,

Thank you for expressing your concerns about the trees. I hadn’t realized that they were planted on your property. I’m so
sorry about that, and I wish there was something I could do. Since they are too big to move, and it would be a shame to remove
them, perhaps I could pay you for the property they occupy. How does that sound to you?

Val

Then I got this response:

It sounds ridiculous. I want those trees moved.

Bill Stropp

As if that wasn’t enough excitement for the day, I got a call from Roger. I saw his name on Caller ID and decided not to pick
up the phone. “Valerie. It’s Roger. I’m suing for custody of Pete.”

At first I found Roger’s message amusing. What an arrogant twit! Did he actually believe in his stony black heart that he
had even the remotest chance of gaining custody of Pete? I just had to call Omar, if only to share a laugh. I paged him and
he called back right away.

“Valerie, I was going to phone you tomorrow,” he said. I could hear the clatter of plates in the background, the cheery din
of casual entertaining. Omar, I reminded myself, had a normal life, a wife who loved him and friends who enjoyed his company.
He didn’t spend the last forty-eight hours dragging dead bodies around his house, bickering with greedy siblings, struggling
with distant relatives who believed you were bound for hell because you were a godless heathen. I pictured Omar in a linen
shirt and khaki pants, fingers wrapped around a chilled stein of imported beer. I never met his wife but I imagined her slim
and chic and gracious.

“Roger is suing you for custody,” Omar said.

“Yes, Omar, I know. That’s why I paged you. I thought you’d get a kick out of it.” I managed a chuckle. “Can you believe this?
What a joke. Right?”

Omar didn’t say anything. “I mean, Judge Mendelsohn
hates Roger. Judge Mendelsohn sent Roger to jail, for God’s sake!”

“Judge Mendelsohn retired last week.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Val. Judge Mendelsohn. The judge who hates Roger. The judge who sent Roger to jail. He retired last week.”

I felt my throat constrict. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. I was at his retirement party. As a matter of fact, he and his wife are probably on a Carnival Cruise ship right
now. Heading for the Mexican Riviera.”